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THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


BOOKS BY 
WADSWORTH CAMP 


The Abandoned Room 
The Communicating Door 
The Gray Mask 
The Guarded Heights 
The Hidden Road 
The House of Fear 
Sinister Island 
War’s Dark Frame 






































































J 

THE 

COMMUNICATING DOOR 


BY 

WADSWORTH jpAMP v 



FRONTISPIECE 

BY 

M. LEONE BRACKER 


/ 


GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

1923 






'Sp 



t 


COPYRIGHT, I913, I9IS, 1920, I923, BY 
WADSWORTH CAMP 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED 8TATE8 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 

MAY 28 '23 4 

©CU705602 y* 


■Ml 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I 

: Communicating Door . i 


II 

Hate.57 

III 

The Dangerous Tavern.99 

IV 

The Haunted House.141 

V 

Defiance.180 

VI 

Open Evidence ..227 

VII 

The Obscure Move.265 









THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 



I 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


W HEN he had failed to encounter her 
for more than a month the suspicion 
was born in Dawson Roberts’s mind 
that Evangeline Ashley had been exiled through 
the jealousy of her incomprehensible husband. 
That put Roberts on John Ashley’s trail, and 
at dusk one January evening he ran him down 
in the lounge of a club. 

“Where,” he asked, “is Evangeline hiding? 
Haven’t seen or heard of her for weeks.” 

In their corner it was too dark to read Ashley’s 
face, and his voice, deep and soft, but wholly 
without colour, gave nothing away. 

“What about her having a little rest?” 

“At Ashley House?” Roberts ventured. 
Ashley didn’t answer. Interminably he sat 
in the gathering night, voiceless, without motion. 

“I say, John,” Roberts tried to quicken him, 
“I do hope she isn’t ill.” 

From Ashley’s persistent immobility he drew 


2 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

an uncomfortable impression of the cataleptic. 
The man had an appearance of having with¬ 
drawn of himself all that was sentient, leaving 
no more than a dead husk. Instead of whip¬ 
ping Roberts’s annoyance that conception in¬ 
creased his fear for Evangeline, for John Ashley 
resisted any scale you chose to apply to him. 
Never, Roberts admitted now, largely because 
of this idea of a mental and spiritual recession, 
had he felt with him quite at ease. 

A servant turned on a number of lights. 
One, a bracket, lowered over Ashley a saffron 
radiance. Even the abrupt exposure failed to 
alter his extraordinary tranquillity that was 
void of meditation or any positive quality. 
His face, in a sombre mould, was handsome; 
and his hair remained black and heavy in spite 
of his more than fifty years. At the moment the 
most disturbing feature for the attentive Roberts 
was the regard of those wide brown eyes directed 
at him without the slightest animation. 

How sallow Ashley’s skin was! It made 
Roberts think of the lustreless tones of flesh 
tints on an old canvas. 

The whole trouble, he reflected while he 
waited, lay in the fact that Evangeline was too 
young for her husband’s age; too bright for 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 3 

his pronounced melancholy. Undoubtedly the 
six years of their wedlock had materially 
emphasized that disparity, and her failure to give 
an heir to the last of the direct line of the Ashleys 
hadn’t made their relationship more congenial. 

Roberts, moreover, had no doubt. Ashley 
was jealous of him, and his temper grew that 
so morose a type couldn’t picture a protective 
and enduring affection growing from a hopeless 
love. For Roberts had loved Evangeline in a 
difficult silence since the first year of her mar¬ 
riage when Ashley had brought her triumph¬ 
antly to New York from her home in the South. 
It was that honest passion that had made him 
suffer for her as year by year he had watched 
her beauty alter and her gaiety diminish be¬ 
neath the suppression of her husband’s sombre 
nature. That was why he waited patiently, 
anxiously now before the motionless man, sub¬ 
ordinating his temper to her service. 

A vague dread rippled along his nerves. By 
Jove, it was unnatural this long quiescence; 
these unwavering eyes that saw nothing and 
released nothing! 

It was that, finally, that got Roberts to his 
feet and sent him helplessly across the lounge. 
You couldn’t argue with an antagonist who 



THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


4 

deliberately detached his soul from his body. 
Roberts smiled grimly. Ashley could almost 
make one believe in that absurdity. 

In the doorway he started at a touch on his 
arm. He had heard no movement behind him, 
but John Ashley stood at his elbow, his eyes 
sufficiently alive now with suspicion and dislike. 

“You were wondering, Dawson,” he said in 
his dreamy voice, “about Evangeline’s move¬ 
ments. Would it be impertinent to ask why 
they interest you?” 

Roberts was careful. The other, he was 
certain, had given something away: his respon¬ 
sibility for his wife’s departure and silence. 
He was particularly vigilant, too, because he 
of all men couldn’t afford an open break with 
Evangeline’s husband. He answered, there¬ 
fore, on a casual note: 

“When for a long time you don’t see an old 
friend you can’t help fearing something’s wrong. ” 

Ashley replaced his mask. 

“Not a thing wrong with Evangeline, Daw¬ 
son. On the contrary, quite all right. But 
thanks for asking.” 

Roberts, to a man now confessed an active 
enemy, nodded a friendly good-night. If Ash¬ 
ley hadn’t been inimical he would have told 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 5 

Evangeline’s whereabouts. Roberts would have 
to find out for himself. He decided it that 
night as he sat reflectively before the fire in 
his apartment. The more he went over the 
case the more he believed Evangeline needed 
help. If only her father weren’t in the South! 
Roberts might have gone to a parent and 
spoken frankly to him the words that ran 
through his mind now. 

“John Ashley and Evangeline are unhappy. 
The Lord never meant them for each other. 
He’s too finely bred, perhaps, because the Ash- 
leys have more steadfastly clung to their tradi¬ 
tions than any Colonial family I can think of. 
They’ve inter-married until their brains can’t 
absorb anything beyond their outworn Ashley 
ideas-” 

Roberts halted his imaginary conversation. 
Was that quite just to Ashley? He got along 
well enough in Wall Street. It was socially 
that he held himself apart and made his ac¬ 
quaintances suspect a wayward, inexplicable 
personality. It was obviously unjust to charge 
him with more than an eccentricity that an 
unjustified jealousy had increased. But was 
he, because of his inheritance, capable of some 
mediaeval gesture with Evangeline? That was 


6 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

the delicate problem Roberts felt it his duty 
to probe, quietly, in order to avoid the least 
scandal. 

It was Ashley who gave him his chance. 
Two days later Roberts read in the morning 
paper that he had left for Florida on a friend’s 
private car. Now one could scout at least, and 
the likeliest neighbourhood was easily chosen. 

Ashley had refused to affirm or deny when 
Roberts had asked him if Evangeline was at 
Ashley House. Ashley’s mother dwelt there, 
a nearly forgotten figure. What likelier place 
for an Ashley to hide the woman he distrusted ? 
For the house was as old as the family in America, 
the temple of its traditions, and, more useful, 
off the beaten track, a logical spot for exile or 
imprisonment. 

Roberts knew Ashley House was in the 
northern part of the state. He had never 
seen it; few New Yorkers had, Ashley excusing 
his lack of hospitality on the score of his mother’s 
age, the house’s inaccessibility, and its loneliness. 
Now and then a hunter who had stumbled 
upon it came back with rumours of its aged 
beauty and its dignified lack of virtue as a 
home. For Evangeline, already too much de¬ 
pressed by her melancholy husband, it would 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


7 


be the worst choice conceivable; but if she was 
there with Mrs. Ashley, Roberts could properly 
show himself and ask for an interview. 

After an all day’s journey he alighted in an 
ashen, snow-threatening dusk at a village he 
understood to be five miles from his destination. 
From the unkempt automobiles about the sta¬ 
tion he chose the best, flung his bag in, and 
accosted the driver. 

“ Please take me to Ashley House.” 

The man stared at him before refusing. 

“Why not?” Roberts insisted. “It’s only 
five miles.” 

“Nearer fifteen,” the driver grumbled, “and 
most of them over bad, scarcely used roads, 
and you can see for yourself.” 

He indicated the threatening sky. 

“I’m not anxious to be snowed under in those 
woods.” 

He added under his breath, 

“And I’m not hankering to spend the night 
at Ashley House.” 

“Why not?” Roberts asked. “I’ll give you 
more than your fare.” 

The bait attracted. The driver frowned. 

“If this snow held off a couple hours I could 
get back. What’ll you pay?” 



THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


Roberts agreed to an extravagant price, 
since now he was in the neighbourhood, he 
desired to reach Ashley House with the least 
possible noise. So he climbed in beside the 
driver, and they swung out of the village and 
between fields that announced their sterility 
in spite of a kindly mantle of snow. Scattered 
farmhouses lifted themselves above the tire¬ 
some white expanse; but as the night closed 
down even the lights from these receded and 
vanished. 

At the end of the dusk they entered a dense 
pine and hemlock forest on a road whose snowy 
surface was scarcely broken. The driver snapped 
on his headlights, and through the glowing tunnel 
they made the car jolted slowly onward, its ex¬ 
haust echoing emptily. 

“Fd heard,” Roberts sounded his man, “that 
Ashley House was rather off the track, but I 
hadn’t suspected a wilderness like this.” 

The driver neglected his wheel long enough 
to give Roberts again his bewildered and in¬ 
quisitive glance. 

There are few enough people,” he muttered, 
“that take the trouble to find it.” 

“Visitors,” Roberts asked, “or country 
people?” 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 9 

“There aren’t any visitors,” the driver said 
shortly, “and you might know that country 
people are superstitious.” 

Roberts grinned. 

“I’d expected something like that. Any old, 
inhospitable house gets the name of being 
haunted.” 

“I guess that’s it,” the man agreed doubt¬ 
fully. “Maybe if people got asked more they 
wouldn’t talk so much; but Ashley House 
hasn’t anything to do with the neighbourhood. ” 

Roberts dared the question that had struggled 
for voice since he had alighted from the train. 

“Who’s living there now?” 

“Old Mrs. Ashley. Now and then Mr. 
Ashley comes up from the city, and that sour 
man of theirs meets him with a station car.” 

Had Roberts after all misjudged John Ash¬ 
ley’s course? 

“I’d heard,” he said, “young Mrs. Ashley 
was there.” 

The driver laughed. 

“I tell you nobody knows what goes on in 
that house. About a month ago I did see 
Ashley come in on the train with a swell-look¬ 
ing woman. Nobody’s seen her take train 
away. That could be his wife.” 


io THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

At last he gave his curiosity open voice. 

“What might be your business there?” 

It was a question Roberts was likely to be 
asked many times on this reconnaissance. He 
tried to keep the embarrassment from his voice. 

“Fm a lawyer. ” 

The driver appeared satisfied, and relapsed 
into silence while Roberts’s mind explored a 
brighter path. Of course he was a lawyer, and 
if John Ashley through physical means, or a 
subtle strategy, chained Evangeline in this 
wilderness, he would advise her to seek a divorce, 
and would take in her behalf the necessary 
steps. The realization that he was coming 
each moment closer to her tightened his nerves. 
It couldn’t be far now. A gate, in fact, barred 
their way. When the driver had opened it 
they entered the Ashley grounds, as far as 
Roberts could judge in the car’s light, as tangled 
and little explored as the outside forest. For 
all his skeptical nature he felt himself oppressed 
by a sense of removal from the familiar world ; 1 
by an inimical loneliness, by misgivings as to 
what he would find at its heart. 

Cottony snowflakes commenced to drift 
through the tunnel of light. The driver gave 
an exclamation. 




THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


n 


“How long you expect to be here?” 

“A few minutes/’ 

“I won’t wait longer than that,” the man 
said irritably. “If this keeps up the road’ll 
be blocked inside of two hours. There you 
are, ahead. ” 

Roberts stared as the fingers of light brushed 
with fugitive haste gray walls splotched with 
snow. The curving of the road left the build¬ 
ing again to darkness without having disclosed 
a single detail. When, a moment later, he 
descended on hard gravel Roberts got only a 
formless impression of a brooding heap that 
sprawled in wings to either side. Ashley House 
was as blind as a ruin in a desert. 

Aware of the beating of his heart he climbed 
stone steps, crossed a terrace, and paused be¬ 
fore the dim shape of a door. His fumbling 
hands found no bell, but alighted on a knocker 
which a number of times he lifted and let fall. 
The response made him think of a stick struck 
repeatedly at a drum. The blind building 
seemed unavoidably as vacant as that. 

Waiting, it was incredible life should ever 
stir beyond the gray walls. If it did what 
attitude should he take? Standing in the 
soundless darkness, shrinking from the stealthy 


12 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


caresses of the snow, Roberts’s doubt of John 
Ashley assumed a more compelling form. As 
if the hint had come from the house itself he 
conceived of him as a figure dangerous and 
inexorable. 

Life disclosed itself inside. He heard a hand 
at the knob, and the grating of a heavy key in 
disused wards. He threw back his shoulders. 
They’d lie and say she wasn’t there, or, admit¬ 
ting it, would refuse to let him see Evangeline. 
He would insist. They could report what they 
pleased to John after he had had one word 
with her and had learned just how badly John 
was 6ehaving. ‘ 

The next moment would tell. Here was his. 
chance. The door swung slowly open, releas¬ 
ing a band of wan candlelight in the centre of 
which stood silhouetted a tall, ungainly woman, 
like a barrier. 

“I wish,” Roberts said boldly, “to see young 
Mrs. Ashley on a matter of great importance.” 

Amazement or caution held the servant 
stolidly in his path. 

“Mrs. Ashley,” she announced in a hoarse 
tone, “sees no one.” 

Roberts raised his voice so that it resounded 
confusedly within the house. 





THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 13 

“I am Dawson Roberts. I think Mrs. Ash- 
jley would like to see me. ” 

1 Startled, the woman exposed her profile, a 
stern, middle-aged face unaccustomed to laugh¬ 
ter. Beyond her now Roberts saw a wide and 
Ideep hall with a mantel on which two candles 
iflickered, rows* of indistinguishable portraits on 
I the walls, a staircase which circled gracefully 
into darkness. 

Roberts made a motion to step past. The 
woman hesitated but didn’t give way. Feet 
pattered in the blackness. Roberts held his 
breath as he saw those feet on the staircase, 
then the remembered lines of Evangeline’s 
figure, finally her face, unbelieving and eager. 

He breathed again with a passionate anger. 
What had Ashley done to her during these few 
weeks? In her countenance, pallid and hag¬ 
gard, the unhappy suppression started in New 
York was now complete. Her hair, jet black 
a month ago, was streaked with dun souvenirs 
of suffering. She came to him as one runs to 
a rescuer, miraculously appeared. 

“Dawson! Why are you here? You should 
have told me at once, Anna. ” 

Roberts was relieved to see the servant step 
obediently aside. Then Evangeline’s position 


i 4 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

couldn’t be as bad as he had feared. She 
hurried on, the words crowding each other with 
neurotic haste, her gestures jerky and mis¬ 
directed. 

“Of course you drove from the village, 
didn’t you ? Anna! Send the automobile back. 
Mr. Roberts will spend the night.’ 5 

Disapproval in her eyes, the woman stepped 
out. Roberts grasped at the opportunity, bend¬ 
ing close to Evangeline’s ear. 

“I’ve been worried about you. Tell me 
quickly. I’ve thought of you as a captive.” 

She commenced to laugh hysterically. 

“Don’t do that, Evangeline,” he begged. 

“I am a captive,” she laughed. “I’m bound 
hand and foot.” 

She controlled herself. Appealingly she 
grasped his arm. 

“That’s why I’m so glad you’re here—so 
glad! Perhaps you can cut the cords, Dawson. ” 

To what form of captivity could she refer? 
He couldn’t ask her then, for the servant came 
back, carrying Roberts’s bag, which she wouldn’t 
let him take. She crossed the hall toward the 
stairs. 

“Anna,” Evangeline directed, “you will put 
Mr. Roberts in the master’s room.” 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 15 

! Again disapprobation flashed in the woman’s 
eyes as she turned and went on up the stairs. 

“What am I doing to you, Dawson?” Evan¬ 
geline whispered. 

| There was guilt in her face, and fear. 

“ I wondered if any one would ever come to 

„_ 99 

me. 

She took his hands and pressed them. 

“I might have known it would be you. You 
must go with Anna now.” 

“But, Evangeline,” he objected, “I’ve come 
to learn why you are buried here, what’s hap¬ 
pened to you, if John’s lost his head——” 
“Later,” she whispered. “Oh, yes. I want 
to tell you all that. But go with Anna now. 
Soon it will be time for dinner. Please, 
Dawson.” 

Reluctantly he gave her her wish and climbed 
the stairs to a square hall from which on either 
side passages led, probably to the wings. Di¬ 
rectly ahead were two ponderous doors. A 
console stood between bearing a number of 
candlesticks. The woman had lighted one of 
these. She raised it, crossed, and opened the 
door to the left. 

Roberts, close behind her, hesitated before 
the air, charnel cold, palpably damp, that 


16 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


streamed from the room. In it the candle 
flickered, nearly expired, then continued faintly 
to burn. After the woman Roberts moved into 
that sodden atmosphere with his nerves rip¬ 
pling in a vaguely familiar fashion. As the 
woman placed the candlestick on the mantel 
he remembered where he had experienced that 
sensation before—at the club the other day 
when he had stared at John Ashley as at a man 
cataleptically withdrawn, leaving behind no 
more than a dead husk. 

The room was large and evidently tightly 
closed, for this atmosphere was infinitely colder 
and more saturated than the outside air. 

The servant was stooping at the fireplace 
striking a match, applying it to kindling be¬ 
neath large logs. That would soon warm the 
place; but Roberts noticed the woman shivered 
even after the pile was well alight. She rose 
and walked hurriedly to the door. 

“I hope,” she said in her husky voice, “you 
will be comfortable.” 

After the heavy door had thudded shut be¬ 
hind her in Roberts’s memory her words became 
threatening. 

“I mustn’t let myself grow fanciful,” he 
cautioned himself. 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 17 

At any rate, he was safely within Ashley 
House, on the edge of the interview he craved 
with Evangeline. Why then should he combat 
a sense of frustration, and this curious, rip¬ 
pling discomfort? The last, of course, must 
come from the deadly atmosphere of a long- 
deserted chamber. He strode to one of the 
two casement windows and opened it. He 
shrank back from the whipping wind that 
entered. That, obviously, wouldn't do. He 
forced the casement shut and fastened it. He 
walked to the fireplace to warm his back and 
take stock of the room to which Evangeline 
had assigned him with her puzzling burst of 
hysteria. 

“What am I doing to you, Dawson?" she 
had said. 

What the deuce had she meant by that? 
Certainly it wasn't a room he would have 
chosen for himself. 

The thickness and antiquity of the walls he 
could measure by the width of the window 
embrasures. The high, slightly convex ceiling, 
too, testified that he was in the oldest portion 
of Ashley House. 

Against the wall opposite stood a four-poster 
bedstead, almost primitive in its massiveness 


18 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

and the coarseness of its carvings. The chairs, 
a chest of drawers, a dressing-table were all of 
the same sturdy period. Faded crimson cur¬ 
tains were draped over the windows. Against 
a stained terra-cotta wall paper hung a number 
of paintings of which he could make nothing in 
this unsatisfactory light. 

All at once he shifted his weight nervously, 
the rippling at his nerves stronger than before. 
More carefully his glance searched the shadows. 
That was a rotten suspicion that he should be 
under observation. He retained it, neverthe¬ 
less. He experienced the abominable self-con¬ 
sciousness of a man whose least movement is 
spied upon. Who would do that here? John 
Ashley was in Florida, but what about his 
trusted servants ? 

He swung sharply and faced the fire, in¬ 
stinctively convinced that the watcher was behind 
him, but, although the assurance remained, he 
saw no lurking place on that side of the room. 
Wait a minute. What about this door at his 
right, close to the fireplace ? 

Warily and interestedly he studied the heavy 
oak panels. If there was a spy he must be 
behind that door, peering through the keyhole. 
It would be wise to have this out at the start. 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


19 

He tiptoed nearer, intending to fling the door 
open on the watcher. 

4 Half way up the blackened oak an iron bolt 
lay snug in its socket. He tried noiselessly to 
slip it back and found he couldn’t budge it at all, 
so thoroughly was it rusted in place. There 
remained the keyhole. Of a size compatible 
with such a door a man would have no diffi¬ 
culty looking through. Roberts stooped and 
drew back, resting on his heels, again at a loss. 
Evidently the huge key had been turned in the 
lock and then the shaft broken off or filed 
through, for the opening was completely plugged. 
No one watched there, but his curiosity was 
aroused that this door, evidently leading to 
the twin of his bedroom, should be so pains¬ 
takingly barricaded. 

That settled it. His idea of being spied 
upon was his own imagination. Then as he 
stood up and turned back to the fireplace he 
smiled triumphantly, held for a moment by the 
illusion that he had caught the eavesdropper. 
From this angle the candle flashed upon a pair 
of steady eyes far above the mantel. 

Roberts relaxed, grinning shamefacedly. 
There was a portrait there, of life size, that 
filled the entire space between the mantel and 



20 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

the ceiling. He had been deceived by painted 
eyes. 

He moved the candle about until it cast upon 
the painting its best light. During several 
minutes Roberts studied the canvas, as in¬ 
terested as if he had discovered flesh and blood. 

The thing might have been a portrait of 
Evangeline’s husband. Looking down at him 
were the same smooth-shaven features, the firm 
lips, the wide-open, inanimate eyes that had so 
unhealthily fascinated him the other evening 
at the club; and he recalled his comparison then 
of John Ashley’s sallow skin with the lustreless 
flesh tones of an old canvas. But this man, 
about John Ashley’s age, wore clothing of the 
Colonial period, and Roberts, when he went 
closer, made out in a lower corner the name of 
a renowned painter of that day, and the date 
1765. 

Unquestionably it was an old and valuable 
portrait of one of John’s ancestors, to whom, 
through some atavistic trick, he had this 
astonishing resemblance. 

There was the explanation of his fancy of 
having been watched. He had, he argued 
logically enough, on first entering the room, 
glimpsed the painted eyes. While his active 


21 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

brain had forgotten, his subconscious mind had 
retained them to trouble his peace. 

He leant his elbows on the mantel. Here 
and there the paint was flaking. In their fad¬ 
ing, it occurred to him, these pigments had 
achieved an illusion of life far truer than their 
original brilliancy could have done. Actually 
the pictured figure seemed more vitally with 
Roberts than the living John had frequently 
been, particularly that other afternoon at the 
club. 

In shifting his position Roberts’s elbow struck 
an object on the mantel directly beneath the 
portrait. He lifted it and held it close to the 
candle, reflecting that the house was a museum 
of Colonial treasures. He had found an old 
hunting knife with a silver-chased grip and a 
long, curved blade. No one, evidently, troubled 
to keep these priceless pieces in order, for the 
silver was corroded and the blade had ruddy 
incrustations that might be traceable to rust. 

He replaced the knife, and, shivering from 
the damp cold, washed and changed, guessing 
that the house must contain more congenial 
rooms than this, continuing to question why 
Evangeline should have given it to him with 
her neurotic burst of emotion. He was anxious 


22 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

to go downstairs and talk with her, to learn 
why she had called herself a prisoner when she 
went about the house with the deportment of 
its mistress. In any case, she was in deep 
trouble, and he was right to have come. 

He was glad when at last he was ready to 
leave the depressing room. The fire ought to 
have killed its chill, yet he still shivered when 
he took the candle and started for the entrance. 
Half way across he paused, the response of his 
nerves this time easily understandable. What 
indiscretion had he committed? From beyond 
the communicating door he heard the quaver¬ 
ing, beseeching voice of a woman. 

“John! Don’t go there!” 

Angrily Roberts admitted himself a dupe. 
He had walked straight into the trap John 
Ashley must deliberately have set for him, and 
had involved Evangeline in all its delicate 
implications. The sooner he had it out with 
the suspicious beast the better. 

He went on to the hall, set his candle on the 
console, and knocked purposefully at the other 
door. Evangeline opened and faced him. 

“Since John’s come,” he said ironically, 
“I’d like to speak to him.” 

She stared as if he had lost his senses. 


23 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“Why, John’s not here.” 

“What do you mean, Evangeline? I just 
heard you, or someone, speak to him in this 
room.” 

Understanding cleared her eyes. She gave 
him her wan smile. 

“Then suppose you come and see for your¬ 
self.” 

He heard a sound of dull pounding from with¬ 
in the room. He entered. In dimensions 
and furnishing the chamber was the replica 
of the one Evangeline had given him. So 
much he absorbed before his attention focussed 
on the reverse of the communicating door so 
oddly fastened. A white-haired, stooped old 
lady stood before it, her arms lifted, her im¬ 
potent fists striking at the heavy panels. He 
caught her voice, murmuring an appeal that 
started again along his nerves that uncomfort¬ 
able and indefinable rippling. 

“Come back out of that room, John. It’s 
not safe. I tell you to come back, John.” 

“But,” Roberts whispered to Evangeline, 
“no one’s gone through. That door’s bolted 
and locked on the other side.” 

“And on this side,” she answered. 

She had stiffened. Her lips moved with diffi- 


24 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

culty, as though overcoming a fettering in¬ 
animation. 

“ Mother!” 

The old woman turned from the stubborn 
door, and with the motions of a somnambulist 
moved forward. Her eyes, although open, were, 
indeed, as void as the eyes of one who sleeps. 

“ Mother!” 

Evangeline’s voice was more imperative. The 
old lady raised groping hands. Her intricately 
wrinkled face assumed an expression of regret. 

“Yes, Evangeline,” she said patiently. “I 
am here. ” 

Evangeline relaxed. She indicated Roberts. 

“This, ” she said, “ is Dawson Roberts. You’ve 
heard John and me speak of him.” 

Mrs. Ashley’s smile was sweet and welcoming. 

“I am glad to meet John’s friends. They 
don’t often come to us. Perhaps we are too 
old-fashioned.” 

Roberts was surprised by the vital force of 
her grasp. Her hand seemed wholly of nerves. 

“John,” she answered his commonplaces, 
“should come to welcome you; but he’s peculiar, 
beyond my understanding. He doesn’t often 
let himself be seen.” 

What could she mean by that? In spite of 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 25 

Evangeline’s assurance Roberts experienced 
again the shocked conviction that John Ashley 
lurked in the house, spying, waiting to step 
between Evangeline and him. Mrs. Ashley 
glanced at her daughter-in-law. 

“Shall we go down?” 

But now when she moved for the door the 
old lady seemed to have been abandoned by 
the thrilling nervous force she had permitted 
Roberts to experience. She seemed much older. 
She tottered as she walked, so that Evangeline 
led her until at the head of the staircase they 
encountered the tall woman servant, who pains¬ 
takingly conducted Mrs. Ashley down. Roberts 
fell in behind with Evangeline, glancing at her 
knowingly, sympathetically, but the negative 
movement of her head expressed regret that 
she couldn’t verify his doubt. 

During dinner, in fact, it did seem to him 
illogical to charge Mrs. Ashley with more than 
the senility usual to her years. Although the 
vital quality had left her voice, too, she spoke 
quietly and courteously of his journey; and, 
when she found he didn’t care to discuss its 
aim, tactfully shifted the subject. No matter 
how peculiar her actions upstairs, her brain 
seemed quite normal here. 


26 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

The conclusion puzzled him and added to the 
depression he drew from the vast, faded dining 
room. There was shadow everywhere, except 
for the circle of radiance from the table candles 
and the intermittent splashing of the firelight. 
The details of a number of portraits high above 
the wainscot eluded him. He wondered if 
among them was a duplicate of the portrait 
in his room with its amazing resemblance to 
John. 

They were served by a middle-aged, noiseless 
man whose features had the stern rigidity of 
the woman who had admitted him—a servant, 
Roberts guessed, trained all his life in the 
immemorial traditions of Ashley House. 

Opposite Mrs. Ashley a place was set before 
an empty armchair, undoubtedly reserved for 
the head of the house. Roberts found his 
glance continually wandering there. More than 
once he fancied the silent man pausing slightly 
as he passed; and Mrs. Ashley, he thought, 
when she wasn’t speaking to him or Evangeline, 
stared with affection at the empty chair, her 
lips moving soundlessly. 

It was she, Roberts admitted, who made the 
long meal at all endurable, for Evangeline 
scarcely once aroused herself from a brooding 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 27 

silence, or from a perverse motionlessness to 
accept the dishes which she didn’t even make 
a pretence of eating; and moment by moment 
in this oppressive room, its eerie light, his con¬ 
viction grew that there was something out of 
the way in the house that was unhealthy, and 
perhaps dangerous, for Evangeline, and might 
easily become so for himself. So far, he sneered 
as he arose, could mere atmosphere impress a 
man’s brain. With the dreary meal done and 
his interview with Evangeline at hand he tried 
to dismiss his mental dismay. 

The woman servant met them in the hall. 
Mrs. Ashley gave Roberts her hand, apologiz¬ 
ing in her quavering tones: 

“I’m sorry to ask you to excuse me. I am 
on a regime. It takes me to my room now, 
like a child who’s had its supper.” 

She offered her wrinkled cheek to Evangeline 
and surrendered herself to the waiting servant. 
It was this woman who at the curve of the 
stairs glanced back with disapproval and doubt 
at the pair who waited with a frozen impatience 
to be left alone. 

When the others had disappeared Evangeline 
relaxed. She shivered. 

“I’ve had a fire laid in the library. Come 


28 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


there, Dawson, and tell me how you guessed I 
needed you, or someone/’ 

In spite of blazing logs the library was 
scarcely more habitable than the dining room 
had been. Three candles burned on a centre 
table. Above high, crowded bookshelves more 
portraits hung, disclosing only the fashions of 
other periods. The far comers were buried in 
substantial shadow. 

“Why not,” Roberts asked impatiently, “an 
electric light plant; at least oil lamps? Noth¬ 
ing but candles, and never enough of those!” 

As she sank in an easy chair before the fire 
Evangeline shivered again. 

“I shouldn’t care,” she muttered, “to inter¬ 
fere with the customs of Ashley House. You 
haven’t yet told me what impelled you to visit 
it.” 

While she had controlled the emotionalism 
of her first greeting her hope of help from his 
coming escaped from her anxious glance and 
the nervous picking of her fingers at a hand¬ 
kerchief. He sat opposite and told of his first 
worry at her disappearance, his unsuccessful 
questioning of her friends, his distressing inter¬ 
view with John that had determined him to 
learn where she was, and why. 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 29 

“And now,” he said, “you call yourself a 
prisQner yet have an appearance of complete 
freedom. At least no one forbids me to speak 
with you alone.” 

Once more she shivered although the heat 
was strong upon her. 

“Who would,” she asked, “since John isn’t 
here; yet haven’t you a feeling it—it’s dis¬ 
approved of?” 

“Not by my conscience,” he said brusquely, 
“and that’s all that counts now.” 

His voice softened. 

“Forgive me, Evangeline; but in order to 
help you I must speak frankly. John guesses 
that I love you. Unfortunately, he can’t realize 
how unimportant that is to him so long as he 
behaves properly toward you. ” 

She glanced quickly, fearfully around, as if 
she had not been thinking only of John’s dis¬ 
approval. Her voice was so low he barely 
caught her words. 

“Then you won’t misunderstand, Dawson, 
when I tell you I’ve guessed it, too. Your 
coming to-night is the last proof. You’re 
right, if you’re to help me we must be frank. 
But if you’re to help me at all you mustn’t 
speak again of what you’ve just said.” 


30 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


He nodded. 

“It’s some happiness to have you know it. 
What must I do to help you, Evangeline ?” 

She tried to smile, but the sudden moisture 
of her eyes defeated her. 

“Cut cords that can’t be touched. You can 
only help me by being sane where sometimes I 
suspect myself of madness.” 

“I don’t take you quite seriously,” he said. 
“Answer me this: Are you free to return to 
New York if you wish?” 

“If I wish!” she cried. “I can’t wish until 
I’ve found the explanation of the mystery that 
holds me here. I won’t be a moral coward, 
and I can’t let myself go to doubt for the rest 
of my life my own sanity. That’s how Fm a 
prisoner at Ashley House.” 

“It’s John who’s made you so,” he said 
thoughtfully. 

“In a sense,” she answered. “I never liked 
the place, never wanted to come; but he said 
last month I ought to spend a little time with 
his mother, and so I let him chain me to Ashley 
House. I think it was his jealousy that wanted 
to get me away from you and everyone else. 
I’ve got to tell you now. He’s always been 
jealous, morbidly fearful that he couldn’t keep 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 31 

my love. I’ve never been able to overcome 
his fear; and I guess it’s true you and I have 
seen too much of each other for the peace of his 
over-sensitive mind. I—I am afraid of him, 
have been for a long time, as Fm afraid of his 
house. It might all have been simpler if only 
we’d had children.” 

She brushed the tears from her eyes. 

“Dawson, this house is full of them—genera¬ 
tions of children who’ve left behind more than 
their portraits and heaps of broken toys in the 
attic. At times it whispers with laughter, and 
pattering feet, and delightful infant griefs. ” 

She glanced up, smiling wistfully. 

“But that’s my own morbidity; only the 
imagination of a disappointed mother. We 
can’t waste time on that.” 

The breaking down of her reserve, the diffi¬ 
cult baring of her mind m order that he might 
the better aid her, appraised for him the de¬ 
pressive power of the house; for he couldn’t 
concede it anything more individual or alarm¬ 
ing. Gently he urged her to describe the bonds 
by which it held her. She hesitated. 

“I don’t want to prejudice you with my 
experiences. Hadn’t you better wait and see 
if Ashley House has anything to say to you? 


32 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

If in the morning you can tell me it hasn’t I 
will be convinced that I am the victim of my 
own imagination. On the other hand, if you 
experience what I have, you, a man, may find 
a natural explanation. ” 

Commiseration shone in her eyes. 

“It’s why I put you in that—that ghastly 
room. ” 

He stood up, and, his back to the fire, tried 
to mock her. 

“Ghosts, eh? It’s old Mrs. Ashley with her 
crazy fancy that John’s about that’s got on 
your nerves. I confess she gave me a start 
when she talked as if John glided at will through 
oak doors double-bolted and locked.” 

Her eyes reproved. 

“Don’t jibe, Dawson. At least there’s a 
bond between mother and son. She’s told me 
of conversations and experiences she’s had here 
at Ashley House with John when I can prove 
by the calendar he was with me in New York. 
Often when I’m with her she seems suddenly 
to go away, as you saw her to-night. Her body 
remains, but her soul—I always wonder what 
becomes of that.” 

Roberts recalled his impression the other day 
of a cataleptic recession on John’s part. 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 33 

‘Til not,” he said gravely, “argue against 
thought transference, but I’ll read nothing 
supernatural in it.” 

“But she’s psychic,” Evangeline insisted. 

For a moment she seemed to forget Roberts. 
She spoke musingly, as if to herself. 

“She sees. And always I wonder. I can’t 
know which John she sees and talks to. ” 

“Which John!” Roberts repeated, astonished. 
“What are you talking about?” 

She shrank back in her chair, as one dis¬ 
covered at an indiscretion, and wouldn’t answer; 
but Roberts skeptically traced her indefensible 
doubt to the flaking portrait in his room made 
more than a century and a half ago, probably 
of an earlier John Ashley, in the astonishingly 
precise likeness of the living one. He laughed, 
but stopped abruptly, so derisively did the 
shadowed corners echo his scorn. 

“Evangeline!” he cried. “That is a mad 
thought. Tell me why that oak door between 
yours and the master’s rooms is so thoroughly 
barred. There’s an Ashley tradition about that, 
I’ll hazard. Looks as if it hadn’t been touched 
for generations. Maybe something to do with 
that old fellow hanging over my mantel that 
looks enough like John to be his twin?” 


34 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


He saw now how completely the atmosphere 
of the house had captured her. She com¬ 
menced to tremble. She wouldn’t meet Rob¬ 
erts’s eyes. 

“Exactly like John, isn’t it?” she whispered. 
“I wondered if you’d notice it. He was an 
early John Ashley. John’s his direct descend¬ 
ant. Th—that’s one of the things that makes 
me afraid; for they say he was dreadfully and 
wrongly jealous, too. It’s how that door came 
to be barred a hundred and fifty years ago. 
He did it after—after ” 

Roberts had to encourage her to go on, 
although he rather shrank from hearing the 
sort of story he foresaw. 

“After,” she finished, “he’d gone through 
that door, driven by his jealousy, to accuse his 
wife of, and punish her for, phantom wrongs. 
They say she was as innocent as—as I.” 

“You never mean-” Roberts began. 

She nodded quickly. 

“With a knife,” she hurried on under her 
breath. “John showed it to me on your mantel 
when he brought me here and told me the story. ” 

Roberts glanced distastefully at his hand that 
had ignorantly grasped the evil thing. 

Evangeline’s eyes were half closed. She had 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


the air of describing an event she had actually 
witnessed; so meticulously must John have de¬ 
tailed the tragedy to her. 

“Then,” she said, “he bolted and locked the 
door, and broke off the key; and, standing on 

the hearth beneath his own portrait-” 

“Used the knife again?” Roberts asked. 
“Took the only way out?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “He killed himself, 
and, in a house so ridden by tradition, no one’s 
cared to disturb that door. Anyway, for genera¬ 
tions. Mrs. Ashley’s told me, the heads of the 
house left those rooms abandoned. It’s John 
who’s moved back to them. It isn’t pleasant, 
Dawson, after a hundred and fifty years. ” 

“ Beastly of him!” he said, his temper growing. 
Was it possible John had tried to frighten 
Evangeline with the chance of his repeating 
his ancestor’s jealous violence? In this day 
and generation men weren’t likely to do such 
things. But was John, ridden by Ashley tradi¬ 
tion, really of this day and generation? Who 
could tell? He might be equal to some such 
morbid madness. He had shown himself cap¬ 
able, at any rate, of an unforgivable and 
singular cruelty. What a crime to force that 
story on a nervous, impressionable woman, and 


36 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

then condemn her to the very room long 
avoided because of its vicious memories. 

“You stay there/' he asked, “because he 
commanded it, and his mother expects it of 
you?” 

“Yes,” she breathed, “and because I'm 
ashamed not to.” 

“And you imagine,” he went on inexorably, 
“that a John Ashley comes through that locked 
door at night when you're half asleep, or, 
through lack of sleep, have worked yourself 
into a state of hysteria?” 

She covered her face with her hands. 

“Don’t, Dawson,” she begged. 

“Which John?” he cried. “No wonder you¬ 
’ve asked that, and less wonder you don’t know!” 

He surrendered to his rage. He bent over 
her, grasping the arms of her chair. 

“Look at me,” he commanded. “If you’ve 
actually seen any one I’ll tell you which John 
it was. The John you and I know; a John 
cunning enough to frighten through tricks; a 
John who’s lost every right he ever had to you 
by forcing that tragic story in your mind, then 
putting you where your loneliness and your 
imagination could scarcely help materializing 
a phantom. And just so you won’t fail to see 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 37 

a ghost John’s mother’s perpetually reminding 
you that she sees one. Isn’t it so? Don’t you 
believe she’s helping John frighten you into 
clinging to him?” 

“It isn’t fair,” Evangeline fought. “His 
mother loves John, but she’s too sweet; she 
couldn’t hate me that much. It encourages 
me to have you be sure, Dawson; but wait un¬ 
til-” 

“Until,” he interrupted sardonically, “I’ve 
seen a phantom, too? If I see John Ashley 
to-night I won’t ask which one it is. I’ll know 
well enough it’s a jealous living husband.” 

He frowned, recalling his fear before dinner. 

“One can’t even be sure the whole thing isn’t 
a trick—a pretty, jealous trap for you and me. 
Perhaps the announcement of John’s trip to 
Florida was the bait, to tempt me to come, as 
I have, straight to you, Evangeline.” 

She struggled to her feet, pushing him aside. 

“I won’t believe that, Dawson.” 

“Just the same,” he said dryly, “it’s a solu¬ 
tion worth considering. Just the same, you 
can’t deny you’re afraid of John. ” 

He took her hand and pressed it. 

“Neither of us,” he said huskily, “any longer 
owes John a farthing’s worth of consideration.” 


38 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Then his heart leapt, for he saw that she was 
afraid of him. 

“I must go,” she said in a warm panic. 
“Tell me all that in the morning. Prove to 
me that my husband is deliberately frightening 
me. Show me how he’s done it. Then I’ll de¬ 
cide how much consideration I owe him.” 

He tried to restrain her. 

“But, Evangeline-” 

“No,” she said, “I must wait until morning 
to decide. ” 

Helplessly he followed her to the hall and 
watched her start up the staircase. At the 
curve she paused and bent over the rail. Her 
attitude was one of prayer. Her voice shook 
with her desire for mental peace. 

“Prove to me in the morning there are no 
ghosts. ” 

Then she was gone. He knew his anger had 
destroyed his logic, but he was glad to follow 
the impulse with which it crowded his brain. 
He sprang up the stairs and caught Evangeline 
entering her room. Before she could forbid him 
he pushed his way in while she drew back, 
wide-eyed. 

“Dawson! You mustn’t come here!” 

“Don’t be afraid, Evangeline.” 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 39 

As he pulled her, resisting, to him, his rapid 
glance took in the badly lighted, faded room; 
the bed, stained by that tragic story; the oak 
door uncompromisingly closed during more 
than five generations. 

‘Til prove to you now there are no ghosts,” 
jhe sneered. ‘Til say now in this room that I 
I love you, and that you can’t deny loving me.” 

| “I do deny it,” she said fearfully. “I’ll never 
[admit it until John gives me the right.” 

He let her go. 

“You rather damage my challenge,” he said, 
“but the jealous ghost has heard and doesn’t 
strike us down. So sleep in peace in this room 
for once, Evangeline.” 

His bravado had failed to convince her. She 
leant breathlessly against the back of a chair, 
her face chalky. How thoroughly, he mused, 
John had subjected her nerves to his inexcus¬ 
able discipline! He backed out, murmuring a 
good-night, took his candle from the console, 
and entered his own room. 

As he slammed the door shut his temper 
subsided. It was almost as if its flames had 
been quenched by the dark atmosphere. The 
fire, he saw, still smouldered. It had burned 
long enough to dry an apartment many times 



4 o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

as large, yet he experienced the same pervad¬ 
ing chill and wetness that had greeted him on 
his first entrance. 

Irritably he advanced to the fireplace, stooped, 
and placed a fresh log on the heavy andirons. 
Suddenly, unconsciously, he glanced up, his 
nerves at their old rippling. Against his voli¬ 
tion had slipped stealthily into his brain again 
that perception of a steady and inanimate re¬ 
gard. He arose and drew back, lifting the 
candlestick to stare at the painted face that 
had the conformation and dead colouring of the 
living John Ashley’s. 

The portrait possessed a fresh interest now 
because Roberts knew something of the man’s 
tragic history. In view of that he asked him¬ 
self if there was malevolence in the watchful 
eyes. Whimsically he wondered if they could 
hold malevolence for him. He was surprised 
to decide there was none at all. Gad! What 
a stain for a man’s memory! For such a crime 
there could be no expiation here or hereafter. 

He lowered his glance to the rusted knife, 
then looked quickly away. The wet iciness of 
the room seemed to grasp and shake him. With 
an effort he overcame the chill, conquered the 
chattering of his teeth. In bed he’d probably 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 41 

j be warmer. Thoughtfully he set about his 
preparations. 

Was his mental discomfort wholly due to his 
presence in a room of pensive and tragic mem¬ 
ories? Wasn’t there a more substantial factor 
to account for his nervousness ? Hadn’t he too 
thoughtlessly just now cried out his challenge 
from the quick to the dead ? 

In spite of Evangeline’s unbelief it would 
have been simple for John to publish that story 
of his Florida trip in order that he might follow 
Roberts here, and, through the collusion of his 
mother and the servants, lurk, spying, while 
he worked himself into a jealous rage. There 
might easily be other eyes than the disturbing 
ones of the portrait surveying the charnel room. 

For the first time Roberts regretted Evange¬ 
line’s course. It had been inevitable, because 
of her fear, that she should place him in the 
tradition-haunted chamber, for how else could 
she give him an opportunity to assure her her 
experiences were wholly subjective; the result 
of evil suggestions forced upon her by her hus¬ 
band and Mrs. Ashley? But John Ashley, if 
he were here, would never understand that 
motive. Unavoidably jealousy would give him 
another one, and he mightn’t stop to remember 


42 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

that the communicating door could only be 
opened with a crowbar and the aid of an ex¬ 
pert locksmith. Jealous men are notoriously 
unfriendly to logic; and with that morbid brain 
of his, crowded with the story that stained his 
house, he might make some ugly move. 

It was for Evangeline, not for himself, that 
Roberts was uneasy. He regretted his failure 
in modern New York to foresee and guard 
against the chances of a house where old habits 
and impulses survived. He should have brought 
a revolver, since clearly there was no quickly 
available law beyond the individual’s in this 
remote neighbourhood. 

He glanced uneasily around again, convinced 
that he was spied upon by the living, or else 
that Evangeline was right in believing that 
crime and agony leave impalpable and dis¬ 
quieting souvenirs at the scene of their shaping. 
Fruitlessly he explored the room again, found 
no hiding-place, and, consequently, was forced 
back to his puzzled contemplation of the por¬ 
trait. 

“Which John?” Evangeline had said with 
the poignancy of absolute doubt. For a mo¬ 
ment Roberts shared her indecision, then shook 
his head craftily. The living John Ashley had 






THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 43 

j been abroad secretly in this house, and might 
be prowling again to-night, driven by an un¬ 
just and monstrous jealousy. An apparent 
apparition in this room would portend one 
thing to Roberts. It would mean peril. In 
the absence of a revolver he would use his 
hands for what they were worth. 

Holding his dressing-gown about him he ap¬ 
proached the casement window that was nearest 
the communicating door and the fireplace at a 
distance of no more than ten feet. Between 
the faded curtains he stepped into the em¬ 
brasure. Here the voices of the wind were 
louder. The casement rattled. Outside it was 
black although there should be a moon. Even 
with the curtains drawn behind him he could 
see through snow-crusted panes no more than the 
blurred, swaying masses of trees. 

Roberts understood it would be unwise to 
spend the night here without fresh air. In 
spite of the failure of his earlier experiment, 
therefore, he opened one leaf of the casement 
and drew against it a heavy chair that held it 
at an angle wide enough to admit the wind 
without flooding the room with the snow that 
was now mingled with a stinging rain. The 
floor of the embrasure would have to suffer. 


44 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Already it was wet. Through the narrow open¬ 
ing the wind screamed, setting the curtains in 
violent motion. To protect them he looped 
them over chair backs. This air was breath¬ 
able. It ought to sweep from the room its 
charnel cold. 

He carried the candle to the stand by the 
cumbersome bed. The servant must have been 
there, for the covers were turned back, ex¬ 
posing coarse linen sheets. Throwing off his 
dressing-gown he yielded himself to their chill 
embrace. His feet touched a warm object: 
on investigation a stone jug filled with hot 
water and wrapped in a towel. In this unused 
bed it was of small virtue. 

For a long time Roberts lay, shivering. The 
sheets and covers, like the air of the room, 
impressed him as more than cold. They, too, 
seemed wet. He smiled grimly. He’d have no 
difficulty keeping alert for John Ashley’s tricks. 

In the wind the candle flickered. Roberts 
reached to lift it and blow it out, but his hand 
hesitated. He didn’t want to plunge the room 
in a darkness that would scarcely be tempered 
by the expiring fire. A question crept into his 
mind: Would that be so if it was only the 
living John Ashley he was afraid of? 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 45 

j He strained his eyes to peer at the portrait 
across the room. Even at this distance and in 
this bad light it stood out with a distinction 
nearly luminous. He stared back at the brood¬ 
ing eyes defiantly. In one respect—scarcely, 
however, a physical one—the two jealous John 
Ashleys differed significantly. The painted face 
appealed to one’s sympathies. For that man’s 
sake one could hope, indeed, that there was no 
immortality. Otherwise what punishment to 
brood for endless years over a crime for which 
there could be no possible expiation! 

Those painted eyes brooded at least. Roberts 
stirred uncomfortably. Upon his own heavy 
ones they commenced to exercise a quality of 
hypnosis, not unnaturally, he argued, since too 
persistent regard of any object induces auto¬ 
matically a species of drowsiness; but when de¬ 
fensively he shifted his glance it went straight 
to the hearth. After all, how the man must 
have suffered there during the few moments 
he had allowed himself! How thoroughly the 
appeasement of his jealousy must have opened 
his eyes to his irreparable injustice! How the 
communicating door, barred upon the havoc 
he had wrought, must have recalled unbearable 
memories of a former happy marital intimacy! 


46 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Undoubtedly that John Ashley must have 
repented before making his futile, meaningless 
gesture of expiation with the knife. There was 
no expiation; but through that crime against him¬ 
self he had admitted the error of his earlier one. 

Crowded with the story, Roberts’s fancy 
transferred from the tarnished frame to the 
hearth the melancholy figure. He pictured it 
sprawled, all its grace and dignity destroyed by 
the awkward heaping of limbs and clothing. 
The stained knife lay to one side- 

Even at this distance the furious wind hurled 
against his face particles of snow and rain, 
arousing him from his half-clairvoyant somno¬ 
lence. Had those eyes compelled him ? Other¬ 
wise how could he approach sleep in the dank 
linen, breathing the abominable air ? Nonsense. 
That was because he had arisen early, had had 
a long journey, a wearisome day. If he didn’t 
exert his will he would let Evangeline force on 
him, in this gray world between sleeping and 
waking, the creeping doubts John had deliber¬ 
ately suggested to her. Perpetually he must 
remind himself that if an intruder should glide 
into the room it would inevitably be Evangeline’s 
husband with whom he would share unpleasant¬ 
ness, even violence. 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


47 

He blew out the candle and lay back in the 
moist mass of linen. Little by little he made 
out again the evanescent flicker of the dying 
fire over the hearth. But there was more light 
| than that. The room was flooded by a pallid, 
i scarcely perceptible glow in which objects 
floated with a fog-like distortion. He assured 
I himself it was the snow radiance, reinforced by 
the moon from behind a multiple shroud of mist. 

The wind, certainly, had gathered passion. 

! Its cries were wilder, making him think of the 
furious, incoherent voices of an army, insane 
from the lust of assault. To those mad troops 
of the storm conquest might come. He must 
remain alert for the dashing open of the case¬ 
ment. He must keep the snow and rain too 
freely from invading the room. 

Already his vigil was difficult. In the pallid 
glow the portrait had lost its illusion of life, was 
only a black blotch above the mantel; but the 
unwavering eyes remained in his memory, 
lulling his caution, urging him to accept the 
relief of sleep. 

He smiled. What influence the imagination, 
reinforced by night and storm in an old house, 
can exert over one! And he wasn’t at all 
sure now that his conscience didn’t trouble. 



4 8 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Suppose John was in Florida; suppose he did 
sleep through the night restfully ? There would 
be reassurance for Evangeline in the morning; 
the only kind she wanted or needed. It was 
his duty to submit himself to the defenceless¬ 
ness of sleep. He sighed. In his ears the 
wrath of the storm had the pleasing influence 
of a lullaby. 

Roberts sat bolt upright, reaching for the 
candle and the matches. He couldn’t find them; 
gave it up; through the fog, which had grown 
whiter and more luminous, stared fearfully across 
the foot of his bed. 

At first he saw no alteration, and used the 
respite to clear his mind. He had no measure 
as to how long he had slept beyond the fainter 
Bickerings from the nearly consumed logs. He 
couldn’t even be sure what had aroused him. 
In his brain a memory of a scream survived, but 
the storm, raging harder than ever, might easily 
have given him an illusion of feminine agony. 

The wind had achieved gale force, reminding 
him of the precariousness of the casement’s 
reinforcement. As he waited, his glance search¬ 
ing the room anxiously, he thought he heard 
a scraping of the chair he had placed against 
the window. 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 49 

Suddenly he stiffened. The dying firelight 
had disclosed at last an alteration, significant 
and threatening. It barely outlined for him 
the feet of a man standing on the hearth, and 
the ankles above, and finally the bottom of a 
wrap of some kind. 

Roberts’s voice choked. 

“Who’s that?” 

He strained forward, exposed finally to the 
doubt that had so frequently and pitilessly 
accosted Evangeline. Which John came and 
went about these rooms ? 

“John!” he cried, and threw off the fetters of 
his indecision, slipping from the bed. 

Why didn’t the man answer? 

Roberts found his dressing-gown and slippers, 
shrinking from the journey to the hearth where 
this unknown figure waited, half in ambush. 

As he commenced fumbling again for the 
matches his heart went in his throat at a splinter¬ 
ing crash. But the feet on the hearth beneath 
the portrait had not moved. Roberts remem¬ 
bered. The chair! It had been flung over by 
the attacked casement. The casement was 
wide, banging and shattering against the wall. 
The storm was in the room. He could feel it 
even on this side, searching him with its wet 


50 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

skirmishers. And with it came an increase of 
the pale light that flooded the interior as with 
a white darkness. He no longer needed matches 
to observe, unbelieving, the destruction of a 
tradition; the accomplishment of an apparent 
impossibility. 

The door into Evangeline’s room, strength¬ 
ened by the broken key and its bolts imbedded 
in the rust of generations, had been violated. 
It stood wide, so that through it in the white 
night Roberts could see the foot of Evangeline’s 
bed. He could make out also now the figure 
that meditated on the hearth, the figure of 
Evangeline’s husband, or the image of the John 
Ashley of the portrait. 

Roberts clenched his fists. Had Evangeline’s 
cry aroused him too late? Was he about to 
witness the final phase of a repetition of that 
old tragedy? 

He started forward, crying: 

“ Evangeline! Evangeline! ” 

He breathed again as she screamed: 

"Keep away from the door, Dawson!” 

Through the fog he saw her white shape be¬ 
yond the threshold attended by the crouching 
form of Mrs. Ashley. 

At her voice and that vision the figure on the 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


51 

hearth moved stealthily and noiselessly toward 
the communicating door, right hand upraised, 
clasping an object long, slender, and black. 
The knife from the mantel. 

Roberts sprang forward to prevent at any 
cost the passage again of that doorway by a 
jealousy-maddened John Ashley. Hadn’t he 
told himself all along the only visitant to expect 
was Evangeline’s husband? Yet, as he ran, he 
couldn’t be sure. Evangeline’s doubt surged 
over him. Was all this really only a reproduc¬ 
tion of the dreadful gestures that might ineradi- 
cablyjiave inscribed themselves on the atmos¬ 
phere of a house of death ? 

The figure was at the end of the hearth, within 
a stride of the door. Roberts swerved to the 
left to throw himself through ahead of him. 
He heard the whimpering of the old lady: 

“John! John! Put down that knife!” 

As Roberts leapt for the doorway something 
encumbered his feet and flung him forward. 
He saved himself against the overturned chair. 
He had tripped on the hangings. Behind him 
they swished across the casement. The white 
darkness became black. He was confused, un¬ 
able to see or act. Evangeline, he realized, 
was helpless. Condemned by every appearance 


52 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

of guilt, she awaited the punishment of her 
husband. 

“You’re wrong, man!” Roberts cried. “For 
God’s sake, don’t hurt her, John!” 

Near by something fell, with the dull sound 
of a heavy plastic bundle. There was a metal¬ 
lic rattling on the floor. 

Roberts covered his face with his hands, listen¬ 
ing to the perpetual whimpering of the old lady. 

The scratching of a match in the adjoining 
room aroused him. Slowly he lowered his 
hands, afraid to look through the doorway. 

Evangeline stood there, her wrapper drawn 
about her with one hand, a candle held aloft in 
the other. Roberts spread his arms. 

“ Evangeline! What is it ? ” 

Her lips moved with difficulty. 

“I don’t know, Dawson.” 

But Mrs. Ashley slipped by, and with a 
trembling finger pointed to the hearth. 

A body lay crumpled, face to the fireplace. 
The feet stretched almost to the threshold. 
In Evangeline’s hand the candle commenced 
to shake. 

Roberts tiptoed forward and knelt. 

“ I’ve seen it before, ” she whispered. “ Don’t 
try to touch that-” 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 53 

Her unhealthy dread retarded Roberts. The 
dressing-gown about the awkward form could 
belong to any period. And the knife lay there 
on the hearth, close at hand; the corroded knife 
from the mantel. 

He shook off the spell of Evangeline’s fear 
of the occult. In the candlelight the rust of the 
knife blade glistened, as if it had been freshly 
wet. He reached out and grasped the shoulder 
of a man. He bent farther forward and stared 
down at the dead face of John Ashley. 

“ Just as I said,” he whispered to Evangeline. 
“ It’s John who followed me here. ” 

The old lady sank in a chair, covered her face, 
rocked back and forth, moaning. But Evange¬ 
line stared at him incredulously. 

“Then how-” 

Her question set Roberts’s nerves rippling 
again, for there were abnormal phases of this 
defeat of John, unless one argued that, standing 
on this hearth, he had been overwhelmed by its 
memories, had been urged by them to destroy 
himself and his jealousy before it could impel 
him to another mistake beyond expiation. 

As he bent to a closer examination Roberts 
realized the theory wouldn’t fit. The ugly 
wound at the back of the neck couldn’t con- 


54 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

ceivably have been self-inflicted. No doubt 
remained. As he had been on the point of 
stepping murderously through the doorway the 
knife had been snatched from John Ashley’s 
hand. He had been struck down from behind. 

Roberts stood up, glancing helplessly at 
Evangeline. He sprang at her with a cry, and 
took the uplifted candle from her hand; for, 
unnoticed by her, the hot grease dripped on 
her bare forearm. 

As he followed her fascinated, fearful glance 
to the tarnished frame over the mantel he re¬ 
called audacious comments his brain had formed 
about expiation. But he was confused, for the 
moment helpless. He knew only that John 
Ashley had been inexplicably halted on the 
threshold of another unpardonable, jealous, 
tragic blunder; and above his body the life-like 
portrait of that other John Ashley was no 
longer discernible. The frame enclosed only a 
bare canvas, uncoloured save by the stains of 
its antiquity. 

“On this earth,” Roberts explained gently to 
Evangeline the next morning in the library, 
“nothing happens that can’t be accounted for 
naturally.” 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


ss 

“Would you dare say,” she murmured, “any¬ 
thing happens that can’t be as easily accounted 
for supernaturally?” 

In order to comfort her he embarked on a ra¬ 
tional solution of what had happened last night. 

“I know,” Evangeline interrupted him weari¬ 
ly, “that John followed you here and found you 
in that room. But what about the door?” 

“ I’ve examined it, ” Roberts answered. “The 
bolts were both drawn, and the lock was back. 
Perhaps the lock had never been turned. With 
only the bolts to figure on, it’s obvious John 
shot the one on my side, and his mother the 
one on your side when your cry called her to 
your room. ” 

“She hasn’t the strength,” she protested. 
“Besides, I think she loves me. I don’t mind 
believing, Dawson, that door was opened by the 
hand that closed it. It might have been as a 
test for John, to see if he would act on its 
evidence without giving me a chance. Be¬ 
cause of that extraordinary resemblance, you 
will agree John possessed all of that man’s 
mind and soul as well as his body: all but the 
saving regret, the desire for expiation. ” 

“I believe in atavism,” Roberts said stub¬ 
bornly. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” 


56 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“Then,” she challenged, “how was John 
struck down?” 

“The noise of my fall,” Roberts answered, 
“must have startled him. He could have slipped, 
and, in going down, have dropped the knife 
and fallen on it. I tell you, everything can 
be normally explained. I’d noticed the paint 
on the portrait was flaking. That rush of wind 
and snow and rain must have washed it off like 
dust.” 

She smiled wanly. 

“If that’s all so, why is the house at peace for 
the first time? Don’t you feel it, Dawson, all 
the old restlessness and sorrow fled, as if cleansed 
by an expiation?” 

“We know too little about natural forces,” 
he said gruffly, “to bother with the super¬ 
natural. I’ve told you what I believe.” 

“And I you,” she said; “and we’ll never 
know which is right.” 

In the peace of the house he dared touch her 
hand. She shook her head, but from her moist 
eyes he read all the brightness of their future. 


II 


HATE 


ARTH shrank instinctively from the 



task Talbot had given him. The young 


lawyer had come to headquarters, broken 
in health, mentally apprehensive, crying in ef¬ 


fect: 


“I’ll admit, Garth, that as prosecutor Eve 
condemned a man by doing brilliant things with 
insufficient evidence. Now, months after the 
crime, you must accomplish the apparently im¬ 
possible. You’ve got to bring me better evi¬ 
dence than I had at the trial. Before they 
electrocute this poor devil you’ve got to make 
me sure I’m not a murderer myself. ” 

To understand the difficulties Garth faced it 
is necessary to observe from the beginning the 
rapid and inexorable construction of Talbot’s 
dilemma. 

Indefinitely violence had impended over the 
relations existing between David Hume and 
Edward Felton. That one would eventually 


57 



58 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

put the other out of the way was accepted in 
the politer underworld as inevitable. By tem¬ 
perament and circumstance they were natural 
enemies, approximating uniformly the attitudes 
of duellists. As race-track players, as rival 
proprietors of secret and luxurious gambling 
houses, as plungers in the Street, they had 
faced each other with an increasing hatred until 
the city was no longer large enough for both. 

It was the woman, undoubtedly, who quick¬ 
ened their aggressive motions. Hume thrust 
first. Assuming a cloak of reform, because, he 
apologized, of his serious ill-health, he closed his 
own establishment, went to the district attorney, 
and informed on Felton. When the dapper, 
fox-faced Felton was sentenced for a term of 
years in jail two significant phrases slipped 
through the Tenderloin and even as far as 
police headquarters. 

“Dave Hume has railroaded Felton so he can 
have a clear field with Baby Lennox. ” 

The other was more ominous. 

“If Felton gets out, God help the squealer.” 

Felton did get out, almost immediately, under 
heavy bail, pending the result of an appeal. 
Garth by chance was uptown when the news 
filtered through the crowds. He sought out 


HATE 59 

a resort where the acquaintances of the an¬ 
tagonists were accustomed to gather. The 
gossip he heard revolted him. He couldn’t act 
legally, but something, he felt, must be done to 
halt this argument short of tragedy. 

Hume, he heard, was dining brazenly in a 
near-by restaurant with Baby Lennox, the strik¬ 
ing little chorus girl who was credited with 
being the impulse for his treachery. Felton 
would have heard that, too; hot-headed, was 
probably on his way already to exact payment. 

Garth hurried to the place. He saw Hume 
the moment he entered the packed dining room. 
Hume, it occurred to him, habitually achieved 
the distinction of confusing those around him 
into a background for his massive and hideous 
figure. The broad, pock-marked face did, in¬ 
deed, carry to-night a pallor of illness. The 
deformity of his nose was more than usually 
pronounced. His small, blood-shot eyes were 
turned hungrily on the girl, who was beautiful 
in a dark and piquant fashion. From those 
evil eyes escaped, too, a helpless eagerness, as 
if the man were racing desperately against an 
unconquerable opposition. 

Garth sat down. Hume’s grin was resentful. 
His voice grated. 


6o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


‘‘You ought to know, Mr. Policeman, that 
my life’s as level now as that dance floor.” 

Garth heard the girl gasp. 

“My Gawd, David! Is that a live bull? 
He looks exactly like a man!” 

Garth studied the pretty childish face. 

“I suppose you’re Baby Lennox,” he said. 
“Although you don’t look it, you’re old enough 
to take better care of your beau.” 

She fairly quivered with a sudden fury, 
quickly consumed. 

“He’s not. Nobody is. For me men are 
only meal tickets. ” 

Hume thrust back the coarse hair from his 
sloping forehead. 

“We’ll see about that, Baby dear,” he grated. 

Then to Garth: 

“I suppose you’ve come to tell me Felton’s 
loose. I’ll fight him in my own way, thanks.” 

“There’ll be no fight, ” Garth said. “ I’m going 
as far as your apartment with you now. You’ll 
guarantee to leave town to-morrow and keep out 
of Felton’s way until his appeal is decided.” 

“And if I say no?” 

“I’ll trump up some charge,” Garth answered 
evenly, “that will put you where you can fight 
the walls of a cell.” 


HATE 


61 


The grace of Hume's surrender was unex¬ 
pected. He thrust back his chair. 

“Why not?" he said. “Pm better off with¬ 
out all this rich food. Stay and eat it if you 
want, Baby." 

But she arose prettily and walked with the 
others across the room. Hume, Garth noticed, 
was unsteady. He heard the girl ask: 

“What is it, David? What did the doctor 
say?" 

Then Garth saw Felton, who had evidently 
just entered the lobby. The detective was be¬ 
hind the big gambler, so that Felton, it is likely, 
failed to notice him at first. Garth saw the 
hatred flash in Felton’s thin and scholarly face; 
caught the quick motion of his right hand for 
the pocket of his dinner jacket. Baby Lennox 
was quicker than Garth. She sprang forward, 
grasping Felton’s arm, hiding with her slender 
figure the incriminating pocket. Her whisper 
was audible to all three. 

“There’s a bull here, you fool!" 

Her quick resolution had almost certainly 
saved Hume’s life. 

“Hand over the gun, Felton," Garth cried. 

Baby Lennox sprang away, pattering lightly 
down the hall, her hands, held in front of her, 


62 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


partially hiding something in the folds of her 
skirt. A quick, white surprise in the faces of 
the loungers measured her progress. 

“Come back! ,, Garth called. 

She disappeared in a transverse corridor. 
He grinned. 

“Quick as a cat! But you had the gun just 
the same, Felton.” 

“Prove it.” 

Felton’s face was still scarred by that frenzied 
temper for which he was notorious, which had 
just now lashed him toward a public crime 
whose consequences he would not have been 
able to escape. Nor had caution returned to 
him yet, for he raved at Hume. 

“You won’t always have a cop at your elbow, 
or the petticoat you snitched from me to sneak 
behind.” 

Hume handed his cloak-room check to a boy 
and distorted his mottled face with a deliberate 
irony. 

“You’ve always been simple to beat, Ed. 
When you get too much for me I won’t try any 
cheap gun play. I bet you I’ll put you out 
so softly the cops will only wonder at the beauti¬ 
ful floral offering I’ll send for your funeral.” 

“Better win your bet in a hurry then,” 


HATE 63 

Felton said under his breath, “but, by gad, 
there’s something in that, too.” 

And Garth’s anxiety increased, for he sus¬ 
pected that Felton had taken the lesson from 
Hume, that he was through with open violence. 
The detective’s presence seemed to impress the 
man for the first time. He became again a 
calculating figure, attempting to project an 
illusion of polish and breeding. 

The girl returned, smiling. 

“What did you do with the gun?” Garth 
asked. 

“Let me into the comedy,” she replied im¬ 
pertinently. “If I’d had a gun I’d have tried 
to shoot a policeman out of charity for the poor, 
honest crooks.” 

“Thanks, Baby mine,” Hume said, taking 
his hat and coat from the boy. “I guess you 
saved me from a little unpleasantness with this 
wild man fresh from limbo. Ready? You’re 
coming along with me.” 

The desire for violence escaped once more 
from Felton’s eyes. It angered Garth that 
Hume himself should studiously fan that in¬ 
stinct. He lingered for a moment. 

“Lay off it, Felton. You haven’t a chance 
without going to the chair.” 


64 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“I'd take the chair,” Felton whispered, “if 
there was no other way to keep that girl from 
him. She’s too good, too sweet-” 

“Is she all of that?” Garth asked skeptically. 

“By the memory of my mother,” Felton said 
with naive warmth. 

All at once he endeavoured mechanically to 
cover himself. 

“But she doesn’t care for him. Don’t you 
worry, Mr. Garth. I’m not going to touch a 
hair of his ugly head. You’re right. You’ve 
got me too well spotted. Other people are 
afraid of the squealer. Maybe one of them 
will take care of him.” 

Uneasily Garth followed Hume and the girl 
and walked with them as far as the flashy 
entrance of the apartment in which Hume 
lived. 

“Tell your hall man not to let Felton up¬ 
stairs if he should call,” the detective advised. 

“And I guess,” Hume said, “I’ll take your 
advice and get out of town to-morrow.” 

The Lennox girl, who had not spoken during 
the walk, followed Hume into the building. She 
had quite abandoned her audacious manner of 
the restaurant. Her confidence seemed to have 
fled. Garth, as he hurried home, recalled the 


HATE 


65 

two adjectives with which Felton had qualified 
her—Good. Sweet. Remembering his last 
glimpse, he admitted there was something of 
both in her impish face. 

Garth’s heart sank when early the next 
morning the inspector telephoned him to hurry 
up to Hume’s apartment. His question was 
formal. The answer aroused his scorn. 

“The precinct man,” the inspector rumbled, 
“says suicide.” 

“Dave Hume kill himself!” Garth mocked. 
“Not if he had lost every cent and the girl to 
boot. I saw him last night. He had the girl 
all right, and-•” 

“Don’t take my head off,” the inspector 
roared. “That’s why I’m sending you up. 
The district attorney feels the same way. He’s 
put an assistant on the job. Try to work 
peacefully with him.” 

From the first Garth sensed the presence of 
murder evidence. He hurried through a gilded 
hall. He ascended in an elevator resplendent 
with mirrors. He pushed open the door of 
Hume’s apartment, entered among the atrocious 
furnishings, and for the first time came face to 
face with young Talbot. The boy’s eagerness— 


66 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


his over-eagerness—to try a big case, to earn a 
big reputation, escaped from his eyes, from his 
rapid gestures, from his greeting, excited and 
voluble. 

‘‘Glad they sent you, Mr. Garth. You’re 
famous. It doesn’t mean much to you, but 
I’m scarcely out of law school and new in the 
district attorney’s office. It’s a whopping chance 
for me, for these men are known all over the 
country. Things are crowded downtown. If 
I could get the evidence, the D. A. might let 
me try the case. Help me, Mr. Garth. Give 
me the stuff on which I can convict Felton, and 
I’ll be your friend for life.” 

“Why Felton?” Garth asked dryly. 

“The whole town knows he was gunning for 
Hume.” 

■ “Seems to me,” Garth went on quietly, “the 
inspector said something about suicide. It 
isn’t good practice to convict a man just be¬ 
cause you want to.” 

“Suicide, my eye!” Talbot scoffed. “Talk 
to the coroner. He’s in there now.” 

He followed Garth into the bedroom where 
Hume’s body lay, fully clothed, on the un¬ 
disturbed bed. Recently the windows had been 
opened, but the odour of illuminating gas was 


HATE 


6 7 

still powerful. Garth sniffed, fancying an aroma 
more delicate—what might have been the ghost 
of a scent. 

“ You get it, too ? ” the coroner asked. “ Chlor¬ 
oform! And look at this bruise on the right 
temple.” 

Garth glanced at the faint discolouration. 
Then he got to his knees and groped under the 
bed. 

4 ‘Thought I saw something white,” he ex¬ 
plained. 

In a moment he was up, holding out a linen 
handkerchief on which the initials E. F. were 
clearly distinguishable. He raised the linen to 
his face. 

“There has been chloroform,” he said gravely, 
“on this handkerchief.” 

“I told you!” Talbot cried excitedly. “We’ve 
got him already.” 

Without answering Garth continued with his 
work. He returned to the sitting room and 
summoned the house servants, questioning each 
one closely. Hume had followed his advice and 
warned the hall man not to admit Felton, but 
a short time after Hume and the Lennox girl 
had entered the elevator the hall man had 
stepped out for a moment. Felton had come 


68 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

during his absence with a handsome tip for the 
elevator boy to take him up unannounced. 
As soon as he had learned the situation the hall 
man had hurried to Hume’s apartment to 
apologize. In the upper hall both he and the 
elevator boy had heard violent quarrelling. 
Then, cutting under the woman’s voice, scream¬ 
ing and incoherent, they had caught Felton’s 
level tones, and were quite sure of his words: 

‘‘I won’t go to the chair for you, David, 
but I’ll cover myself and kill you just as sure 
as to-morrow morning. Baby, come along with 
me now.” 

But Hume had opened the door, and, in the 
presence of these strangers, at Hume’s com¬ 
mand and the request of the girl, cowering 
against the wall, Felton had been compelled to 
depart alone. A little later the Lennox girl 
had left, her face averted; letting escape, never¬ 
theless, evidences of strong emotion. Felton 
had certainly not returned through the main en¬ 
trance to commit the crime. The waiter, who 
had been accustomed each morning to take 
Hume his breakfast, said he had entered the 
apartment with his latchkey as usual, and had 
knocked at Hume’s bedroom door. After an 
astonishing wait he had tried the door. He 


HATE 


69 

had realized something was wrong when the 
door had opened, for always Hume, on retir¬ 
ing, had locked his bedroom, and had shot a 
bolt he had had arranged as an extra precau¬ 
tion. 

The living-room window opened on a fire- 
escape descending to a courtyard from which 
an alley led to the street in the rear of the 
building. Resting beneath the rubbish in an 
ash can at the foot of this fire-escape, Garth 
found what he was looking for—the weapon 
that had almost certainly caused the abrasion 
on Hume’s temple. It was a fragment of heavy, 
lead-covered cable. An open excavation sug¬ 
gested its convenient origin. 

Garth beckoned to Talbot and led him toward 
Felton’s home. In response to the young law¬ 
yer’s eager questions he admitted that suicides 
by gas, as a rule, lock their doors and are content 
without such extras as chloroform. 

“There’s the bruise, too,” he said. “The 
coroner agrees that the piece of cable, wrapped 
about with the handkerchief, would have left 
no more of a mark than the body shows, yet 
would probably have rendered the victim tem¬ 
porarily unconscious. Then the handkerchief 
was used again to drug Hume with the chloro- 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


70 

form in order that he shouldn’t awake before 
the gas had done its job. You can picture the 
murderer lifting Hume to the bed; failing in the 
effort, for it must have been a great one, to see 
the handkerchief fluttering to the floor, slipping 
before his foot under the bed. He ought to 
have remembered it afterward, though. ” 

“They all slip somewheres,” Talbot grinned. 
“ Probably something startled him, and he made 
his getaway in a hurry without noticing the 
handkerchief had fallen.” 

But the point that hurt Felton most in 
Garth’s mind was the sequence of the quarrel 
in the restaurant: Felton’s threat, overheard 
by the hall man and the elevator boy; and the 
manner of Hume’s death. He could see the 
big gambler now, defying Felton. 

“When you get too much for me I won’t try 
any crude gun play. I bet I’ll put you out so 
softly the cops will only wonder at the beauti¬ 
ful floral offering I’ll send for your funeral.” 

Clearly Felton had read the lesson, boasting 
a little later to Hume: 

“I’m not going to the chair for you, David, 
but I’ll cover myself and kill you just as sure as 
to-morrow morning. ” 

And before the morrow Hume had been 


HATE 


7 i 

killed and these patent attempts made to give 
the case an appearance of suicide. 

“If it hadn’t been for the unlocked door and 
the handkerchief-” he said musingly. 

“I want to thank you, Mr. Garth,” Talbot 
broke in. “If I can’t send Felton to the chair 
on this evidence I don’t deserve success. ” 

Garth smiled. 

“Do you realize you haven’t got a single 
piece of direct evidence ? There’s nothing more 
uncertain in this world than circumstantial 
evidence. ” 

“I’ve got the handkerchief.” 

Garth shook his head. 

“Felton might have dropped that during the 
quarrel when he was there publicly. It isn’t 
likely, but the defense will make that point. 
And don’t forget you have got to break down 
Felton’s alibi. Don’t imagine he won’t have 
one. Baby Lennox’s actions will bear looking 
into.” 

Talbot’s enthusiasm, however, was undamped. 
He glimpsed reputation ahead, and nothing was 
going to snatch it from him. 

Felton’s character was outlined by his dwell¬ 
ing as consistently as Hume’s had been. The 
apartment house in which he lived was small 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


72 

and neat, boasting only one servant, a negro 
boy who ran the elevator, operated the switch¬ 
board, and attended to the inquiries of callers. 

“Felton’s alibi!” Garth grinned, indicating 
the boy. 

The gambler greeted them with a studied 
politeness which let Garth observe nothing use¬ 
ful. He did, indeed, fancy a gleam of satis¬ 
faction in the level eyes. 

“Then one of his other friends croaked the 
squealer. ” 

Garth smiled. 

“ Come with me, Felton. I’ve got to have you 
committed for the murder. ” 

“I can prove,” Felton said easily, “that I 
wasn’t out of this apartment after ten o’clock 
last night.” 

“I thought you could do that,” Talbot 
laughed. “By the way, I must warn you that 
anything you say may be used against you.” 

“Who,” Felton asked Garth, “is this pretty 
young thing you’re carrying around with you ? ” 

“An assistant district attorney,” Garth an¬ 
swered, “who’s begging for a chance to convict 
you. ” 

“Guess I’d better keep my mouth shut,” 
Felton commented, “until I see a lawyer. I’ll 


HATE 


73 

say one thing, though. If Dave Hume has 
been murdered, you've got a swell chance of 
pinning it on me. ” 

Probably because of his conception of the 
enormity of that chance Talbot laughed again, 
happily. 

The ambitious young man had, at least, not 
underestimated his opportunity. No matter 
how distasteful their reputations, Hume and 
Felton were known far and wide. The death 
of the one and the trial of the other were journal¬ 
istic sensations. Baby Lennox’s picturesque 
and intolerant personality added to the case 
a certain pungency. 

Talbot entered court, as Garth had foreseen 
he would, without a piece of positive evidence. 
It had been impossible to find the chloroform 
bottle or to trace its purchase. Evidently no 
one had seen Felton on the street that night. 
Baby Lennox, beyond denying that she knew 
anything, refused to talk until she should be 
called upon to testify. On the other hand, only 
the negro boy could bolster Felton’s alibi; and 
the man’s motive and his threats were powerful 
weapons in the hands of an unscrupulous 
prosecutor. 

It is, perhaps, too much to call Talbot that. 


74 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

He seemed to have forgotten he was dealing 
with human factors. Garth understood. Tal¬ 
bot had carried into the world from college an 
immature point of view. The man on trial for 
his life was to him no more than a football 
which he must at all costs boot between the 
goal posts of success. 

Opposition whipped him to greater efforts. 
He faced the judge’s plain dissatisfaction at the 
lack of fact with renewed energy. As an anti¬ 
dote for Baby Lennox’s curious victory on the 
stand he brought tears into the eyes of the 
spectators through his adroit questioning of 
Hume’s physician. 

More than once Garth had been on the point 
of urging the arrest of the Lennox girl, but the 
atmosphere of the case was antagonistic to such 
a move. There was really nothing against her 
beyond the fact that she had been alone with 
Hume shortly before his death. When she took 
the stand she wore a vivid red gown which 
threw into striking relief the dark colouring of 
her impish face. The courtroom gasped. Garth 
experienced only scorn for this over-adorned 
creature, who, nearly everyone believed, would, 
if he had lived, have been Hume’s wife. 

She answered Talbot’s early questions glibly 


HATE 


75 

enough. Her recollections of the quarrel be¬ 
tween Felton and Hume that night she failed 
to make distinct. It was about her, she admit¬ 
ted. She denied that anything beyond formal 
good-nights had passed between Hume and her¬ 
self after Felton had left them. 

“You,” Talbot cried, “as far as we know, 
were the last person to see David Hume alive. ” 

He commenced to heckle her. She pressed 
her lips tight. The judge told her the law, 
advising her to answer. Taking the words out 
of his mouth, she refused on the ground that to 
do so might incriminate her. She became 
hysterical, covering her face and weeping. It 
was necessary to lead her from the room and to 
conduct her to her home where she was placed 
more or less under surveillance. 

Had she answered, Garth asked himself, to 
the identical impulse that had led her to protect 
Felton that night in the restaurant? Had they 
all figured wrong about her heart from the be¬ 
ginning? Felton, at her performance, did not 
conceal his joy. The jury responded to the 
doubt her behaviour had cast on the case against 
him. 

So Talbot got what he could from Hume’s 
physician. The witness testified that the big 


7 6 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

gambler had run his course, and would have 
died of an incurable disease which he had in¬ 
sisted on aggravating with his mode of life. 
Talbot’s questions elaborated this revolting idea 
of the murder of a dying man to satisfy an evil 
vengeance before nature could interfere. And 
on the stand himself Felton admitted that the 
quarrel had centred about Baby Lennox, and 
that the girl did not love him. 

So the case swayed, while Garth watched a 
nervous strain increase in Talbot’s eagerness. 

“You’ll work yourself sick,” he warned him 
one evening. “They’re sure to give you a ver¬ 
dict of manslaughter, anyway.” 

Talbot wouldn’t have it. 

“No tie games for me,” he said. “I want 
a first-degree verdict or nothing. He’s guilty 
as hell.” 

“Maybe you’ll make the jury think so,” 
Garth muttered, “but not on the evidence.” 

Talbot utterly discredited the negro boy, sole 
prop of Felton’s alibi; but it was his dramatic 
summing-up that over-weighed the balance be¬ 
yond recovery. 

“Edward Felton, I accuse you of the murder 
of David Hume. ” 

Clothed wholly in black, he stalked from be- 


HATE 


77 

hind the jury box and, with his finger out¬ 
stretched at the white-faced prisoner, held his 
pose until the courtroom had reached a breath¬ 
less silence. 

Garth, in spite of his long experience, was 
impressed like the rest. That summing-up be¬ 
came historical among the lawyers. Its in¬ 
complete logic, by clever emphasis and masterly 
innuendo, was made to appear whole. Felton’s 
defense that he had lost his handkerchief in 
Hume’s apartment during the quarrel was re¬ 
ferred to the personal habits of the jurors. 
And so with all the evidence. It was dramatic. 
It was brilliant. At the moment it appeared 
convincing, but the address was constructed 
of circumstance without the foundation of a 
single, indisputable fact. 

It won the case. Felton’s lawyers failed to 
overcome the impression it had made. Their 
desperate demand for the arrest and indict¬ 
ment of Baby Lennox came too late. Talbot 
had got the jury. 

Garth congratulated him. 

“Although,” he added, “I’d hate to send a 
man to the chair on that evidence.” 

Afterward he was sorry he had said that. 
Talbot’s dry hand scorched him. 


78 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“See here, boy. You’ve got fever.” 

But Talbot only repeated mechanically under 
his breath: 

“He’s guilty as hell. He’s guilty as hell. 
He’s guilty as hell.” 

Talbot, when Garth saw him again, had 
fought through haggard months of typhoid, 
yet in his gestures and his emaciated face were 
recorded more than physical suffering. 

Garth’s varied demands had driven the Felton 
case pretty thoroughly from his mind, but now 
the inspector told him to give himself for a 
few days completely to Talbot’s whim. 

“I did my best to find all the evidence there 
was at the time, ” he objected. “They’re electro¬ 
cuting him—Friday, isn’t it? There’s not a 
chance. His lawyers haven’t been able-” 

But Talbot wouldn’t let him go on. 

“You’ve got to show me he was guilty be¬ 
yond the slightest doubt. If I hadn’t been 
sick I suppose I wouldn’t have worried. I’ve 
had nothing to do but think of that case. 
Delirious and conscious, every detail has gone 
through my mind, and I know I didn’t have 
the goods on Felton. It’s why I resigned. I 
couldn’t bear the thought of prosecuting another 


HATE 


79 

man. And I’ve had three offers already from 
prominent firms. That’s the reputation I got 
out of the Felton case.” 

He placed his shaking hands on Garth’s 
shoulders. His face worked. 

“Save me from my own selfish cheating. 
Don’t let me owe my career to the deliberate 
murder of a man. I can’t go on unless I know 
surely that he’s guilty, or, if he really isn’t, 
until I get him a new trial. If only he wouldn’t 
swear day after day that he’s innocent! We’ve 
got to find the fact we never had. I’ve talked 
with Baby Lennox, but she won’t give up to 
me: yet I’ll swear she knows something. She’s 
changed, too. You may be able to handle her 
now.” 

Hopelessly Garth agreed to try, promising to 
keep Talbot informed of every move he made. 

Now that he dwelt exclusively on the case 
he recognized the vast injustice of which Felton 
might be the victim. Baby Lennox wasn’t the 
only alternative. As Felton had more than 
once suggested, there were plenty of lawless 
men to whom David Hume, turned informer, 
had become a menace. Still, as Talbot had 
suggested, the temperamental girl was his logi¬ 
cal starting point. 


80 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Her habits had, indeed, altered conspicuously. 
He found her in an unpretentious boarding 
house on the upper West Side. She wore a 
simple dark gown. Her really lovely face had 
lost much of its impish mobility. Her eyes, 
startled at first, turned to him with curiosity 
and appeal. 

“Reformed, Baby?” he said kindly. 

For an instant her old spirit flashed. 

“No need for me to reform. Whether you 
believe it or not, I never carried anything to 
confession I was ashamed of. Tve left the 
chorus, if that’s what you mean. Tm trying 
to work. Dave’s going out that way fairly 
sickened me with flashy things, and now Ed-” 

She glanced away. In the girl Garth saw 
qualities he hadn’t suspected. He experienced 
all at once a sympathy, direct and tender. Yet 
beneath this repression of her former scornful 
manner he caught an indignant impulsiveness 
that would make her capable, under the right 
provocation, of killing such a man as Hume. 
Excitedly he recalled her denial in the restaurant 
of any amorous intention toward the big gam¬ 
bler. Somehow he had to discover her exact 
sentiment for Hume that night of his death. 
He touched her hand, speaking softly. 


HATE 


81 


“You loved him very much, Baby?’’ 

Her quick tears surprised him, but she shook 
her head. 

“Dave? I didn’t love him.” 

The quality of her voice was desolate and 
groping. 

“I don’t believe I could love anybody. It 
just isn’t in me.” 

She hurried on with an artificial bravado, as 
if she had said too much. 

“What you come here for? What you want 
of me? I didn’t kill Dave.” 

It isn’t frequently that a detective can speak 
with the frank sympathy Garth experienced. 
His manner affected her, obviously; brought her 
mentally closer to him; would make her, he 
felt, in her turn, frank. 

“I don’t believe you killed him, and I do 
believe Ed Felton did. But, Baby, the evidence 
was weak. I want the case cleared up before 
he’s executed. So does Talbot-” 

She raised her hands, interrupting. Her face 
*was animated again. 

“Talbot might be a murderer himself. Why 
does he keep coming to me? I won’t talk to 
him, the—cheater!” 

“Because,” Garth answered slowly, “he be- 


82 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

lieves, and so do I, that you know who killed 
Dave Hume.” 

"It’s a lie!” she snapped. 

“The doubt,” Garth went on gently, “is 
breaking that boy. He’s brilliant, and his whole 
future depends on his learning the truth before 
it’s too late. If you know Felton did it, you’ll 
only do good by saying so now. If you know, 
or think, that he didn’t, you can’t keep quiet 
any longer, for day after to-morrow he goes to 
the chair.” 

“Why should I help Talbot?” she cried. 
“You saw how he treated me in court, trying 
to frighten me into saying things I had no right 
to say, couldn’t say-” 

“You see,” he caught her. “You haven’t 
told all you know.” 

“If you think I did it, why don’t you arrest 
me?” she challenged. 

Garth shook his head. 

“I haven’t the goods. Nobody has. His 
lawyers have moved heaven and earth for one 
new fact to reopen the case. You didn’t do it, 
Baby. I haven’t come here to make trouble— 
only to help you and Talbot and Felton. You’re 
talking to a friend. Do you, or do you not, 
know that Ed Felton killed Hume?” 


HATE 


83 

“You were square,” she said, “through the 
whole thing. He’s going to die so soon! I 
might as well tell what little I can. It isn’t 
much. I don’t know, Mr. Garth, whether Ed 
killed him or not. On my oath, I don’t.” 

“But you have a theory. I don’t believe 
either Felton or you testified to the whole truth 
about that last quarrel.” 

She shuddered, as if at the memory of some 
devastating emotion. 

“I couldn’t,” she whispered, “before those grin¬ 
ning men and all those sneering women. And Ed, 
I guess, thought it might hurt me, and him, too, 
by strengthening his motive for killing Dave. ” 

Garth tried to subdue his eagerness. 

“Well? The quarrel was about Hume’s 
squealing and you. What else?” 

She covered her face. He barely caught her 
words. 

“That’s all, really, except when Ed came in 
that night I—I thanked God.” 

Garth bent forward. 

“I didn’t know, Baby. We all thought it 
was the other way.” 

“Don’t think I blame Dave,” she went on. 
“I guess I’d strung him along, and he’d begged 
me to marry him more times than I can re- 


84 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

member. He didn’t have long to go. He just 
couldn’t afford to wait, and Ed’s getting out 
on bail that day brought things to a head. 
Dave swore he’d make me promise to marry 
him the next morning. When I told him I 
didn’t love him and wouldn’t have anything 
more to do with him he lost his temper, and 
maybe I did let him think Ed was the cause.” 

“And he wasn’t really?” 

She looked up, indignant. 

“I knew Ed’s record. I’m the only woman 
he ever treated decently. Those men were al¬ 
ways cheating girls like me. I thought it only 
fair to get something out of them without pay¬ 
ing. And I—I got to like them, as pals. But 
that night I forgot about the justice of it. I 
was ashamed, and—and afraid.” 

“You mean you realized there was danger of 
quick murder after that quarrel?” 

She nodded. 

“I had a feeling one of them was bound to 
kill the other before morning, and there was 
nothing I could do. Well! It turned out that 
way, and I believe Ed did it. If that helps 
Talbot, he’s welcome.” 

She glanced up, as if expecting him to go, but 
Garth had no such purpose. 


HATE 


85 

“After what you’ve said it’s perfectly clear 
that more passed between you and Hume, after 
Felton left, than you’ve testified to.” 

“I can’t say anything about that, except that 
it is of no importance.” 

“Don’t you see that you must tell me? 
Remember! Felton goes to the chair day after 
to-morrow. ” 

“I can’t. It—it was personal—one or two 
favours Dave asked me as a sort of payment for 
giving me up. I 'promised, and I can’t talk 
about it—my promise to a dead man. I could 
never get absolution. But I swear if I told you 
every word Dave and I said it wouldn’t help 
Ed, and it—it might hurt him.” 

It became clear that he couldn’t overcome 
her ingenuous conscience. He was inclined, 
indeed, to give the facts she withheld her own 
appraisal. After he had left her the girl’s 
transformation haunted him. Talbot, however, 
drew no comfort from her frankness. 

“She only thinks Felton’s guilty. So do you. 
So do I. But I’ve got to know.” 

Garth despaired of helping him any further. 
He exhausted every device. He was convinced 
that Felton and Hume’s friends knew or sus¬ 
pected nothing that had not appeared in court. 


86 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“If anybody else had done it there would be 
whispers around by this time.” 

Talbot’s pallor and emaciation had increased. 
He spoke hoarsely. 

“Then we’ve got to force the truth from 
Felton himself. It’s our last chance. He’s got 
to stop shouting out his innocence. That would 
worry me if I had convicted him on ten times 
the evidence. ” 

“Suppose,” Garth asked, “that is the truth 
he’s telling in every newspaper. The only 
truth that will satisfy you, Talbot, is a con¬ 
fession.” 

But he yielded to Talbot’s wish and went 
with him to the death house. 

In the gloomy corridor they were surprised 
by the sight of a slender, dark-clothed figure 
at the wicket of Felton’s cell. 

“That’s his girl,” the turnkey muttered. 

The woman turned, as if hunted. Even in 
that sinister obscurity Garth caught her anxiety, 
flushed and neurotic. 

“I was just leaving,” she whispered. 

Garth had agreed to approach Felton alone 
at first. He saw Talbot touch the girl’s arm. 

“Couldn’t I have a word with you, Miss 
Lennox ?” 


HATE 87 

Her red discomfort increased. She drew back, 
as if from some contagious contact. 

Garth guessed Talbot’s purpose. He, too, 
wished an explanation of her presence here. 
Had she lied to him the day before about her 
feelings for Felton? 

“ Don’t be foolish, Baby, ” he advised. “ Stay 
with Talbot, I may want a word with you my¬ 
self after I have seen Felton.” 

He watched Talbot and her sit side by side 
on a bench in the intolerable corridor. 

Felton made no difficulty. Garth entered 
the narrow and desolate death cell and heard 
the door grind shut behind him. Except for 
the prison pallor Felton had altered little. He 
was as neat and ferret-like as ever. His eyes 
had lighted with an evanescent hope. Garth 
hastened to destroy it. 

“No good news,” he said, “much as I would 
like to bring it. I just felt the need of a little 
talk with you.” 

Felton stretched himself on his cot and closed 
his eyes. 

“You know,” he said, “they’re murdering 
me to-morrow morning. Chatty talks with bulls 
have ceased to interest.” 

“Cut that murder stuff,” Garth answered- 


88 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


“You haven’t made the people connected with 
your conviction any happier by it these past 
few weeks. I just wanted to stop you making 
a fool of yourself. I’ve found direct evidence 
that would satisfy a jury of your best friends. 
For one thing, you were seen-” 

Felton yawned. 

“Save your breath, Garth. Pure bluff! You 
haven’t found any new evidence, because there 
wasn’t any to find. The play acting of that 
young brute Talbot convicted me, and I sup¬ 
pose he goes on, not realizing that he’s murder¬ 
ing me.” 

Talbot’s only hope, Garth saw, lay in a direct 
appeal. The sight of Talbot’s physical weak¬ 
ness and mental torture might, just possibly, 
soften this bitter man. 

“ He’s here. He wants to talk to you, Felton.” 

“I won’t see him.” 

“Yes, you will,” Garth said confidently, “as 
a favour to me. Let’s look at the case for a 
minute. If you didn’t kill Hume, who did?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“How about Baby Lennox?” Garth whispered. 

Felton sprang to his feet. 

“If I had anything to strike you with, Garth, 
by God I’d use it.” 


HATE 


89 

“I merely suggest/’ Garth went on, “that 
if you keep shouting out your innocence, in¬ 
stead of confessing the truth, until it’s too late, 
the case might be reopened later and make 
things pretty uncomfortable for her.” 

Felton didn’t answer, but for the first time 
Garth felt something like hope. 

“A confession wouldn’t hurt you, and it 
might help her. As for Talbot, he’s a sick man. 
You’d better see him as I advise.” 

Since Felton didn’t answer, Garth went to the 
wicket and summoned the turnkey. As he 
passed Talbot in the corridor he whispered to 
him: 

“Make him feel sorry for you. Your only 
other chance is through the girl. ” 

He saw Talbot locked alone in the cell with 
the man he had convicted. Then he sat down 
on the bench beside the girl. 

“Why did you come here?” he asked. 

Her voice was lifeless. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “You weren’t square 
with me yesterday. You do love Felton—have 
loved him all along. ” 

With a pitiful sincerity she shook her head. 

“No, but Ed cares for me, and I guess I was 


90 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

about the only good thing in his life. But I 
can’t love any one. I only thought if I could 
make it any easier for him-” 

“And,” Garth insisted, “no secrets passed 
between you?” 

She looked straight at him. Her lips trembled. 

“Mr. Garth, I know I don’t deserve it, but 
can’t you trust me now?” 

The voices murmuring in the cell rose pas¬ 
sionately. Garth went nearer in case Felton 
should grow violent. 

“Felton,” Garth heard Talbot say with tense 
supplication, “if there was the slightest chance 
for you I would reopen the case myself. The 
chances have been exhausted. You’ve got to 
pay the penalty. ” 

“ Because of you, you lying, lawyer-play¬ 
actor. ” 

“Don’t, Felton. Don’t talk that way. 
You’ve got to tell me the truth. ” 

“You’ve heard it often enough,” Felton 
cried. “Before God, I didn’t kill Dave. There 
were plenty of others who wanted to croak the 
squealer. I tell you I must have dropped my 
handkerchief when I was there with Baby.” 

“No, no,” Talbot broke in. “That won’t 
do, because we can’t prove it.” 


HATE 


9i 


He grasped the condemned man’s arms. 

“Own up! You did it! You killed him!” 

Felton commenced to laugh—a high-pitched, 
jeering giggle. Talbot persisted, losing control 
of himself. 

“I can’t let you go to the chair without 
confessing. ” 

Felton’s hideous laughter ceased. 

“Funny world!” he commented. “When I 
die to-morrow you will be a real murderer, but 
they won’t strap you in a chair, and put a 
harness over your head.” 

Garth, discouraged, directed the turnkey to 
let Talbot out. Talbot entered the corridor, 
shaking from the vehemence of his desire. Baby 
Lennox arose and went to him spontaneously. 

“What’s the use?” she said. “You weren’t 
fair to him at the trial, but there’s no use now.” 

“The courts were satisfied, and so’s the 
governor,” Garth said gruffly. “You can’t do 
any more. It’s ended. Come along home.” 

But Talbot refused to return to the city 
before the final act. The Lennox girl left them, 
saying she would be back in the morning as she 
had permission to see Felton one last time. 

“Why do you torture yourself?” Garth asked 
her. 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


92 

“If it will help him I must come,” she an¬ 
swered simply. “He’s asked me. I shall 
come. ” 

During the night Talbot paced the floor with 
the incoherent gestures of intoxication. Garth 
lay awake, oppressed by the imminence of fresh 
tragedy unless the sick man’s doubt could be 
satisfied before the hour set for the execution. 

As they approached by a waning starlight, 
the brooding walls of the prison had an air of 
mocking hope, of wishing to smother the fresh 
and animated dawn. 

In the corridor of the death house a lantern, 
turned low, made the deep shadows flicker with 
a suggestion of turbulent souls. There was one 
slight and steady gleam from the wicket of 
Felton’s cell. The turnkey stood there, his face 
averted, as if ashamed of his duty. Garth 
drew back at Baby Lennox’s voice from the 
cell, clear and sweet. 

“I do love you, Ed. I never was sure before. 
I am now. I will think of you always. Yes, 
of course. You may kiss me.” 

Both men answered to the same impulse, but 
it was Talbot who clutched at the turnkey’s arm. 

“Get her out of there.” 


HATE 


93 


The turnkey clanged open the door. 

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Time’s up.” 

With an automatic dignity Baby Lennox 
walked out, staring straight ahead, with the 
appearance of one who has emerged triumphant 
from some incredible martyrdom. At sight of 
Garth she started. 

“He wants to see you,” she whispered. 

Garth slipped in. There was serenity, even 
content, in Felton’s greeting. 

“I’m glad you stayed over for the show,” 
he said, “but I won’t see Talbot.” 

Garth had no mask. He blurted out: 

“You won’t be stubborn to the end! You 
won’t kill that boy!” 

“Baby wants a confession,” Felton answered 
softly, “and she’s been awfully white. In a 
moment the warden and the priest will be here.” 

And when they had come Felton sat at the 
table and wrote a complete confession of the 
murder of David Hume, following the details 
as Talbot had elaborated them during the trial. 

When the warden and the priest had witnessed 
the document, and, at Felton’s request, had 
departed, Garth took the doomed man’s hand. 

“This means everything to young Talbot, 
Felton.” 


94 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“And nothing to me,” Felton said grimly, 
“but I’m human enough to want somebody to 
know the truth. I wrote that'confession to 
protect Baby and to help Talbot, for I want to 
go out square; but it’s a lie from start to finish. 
My alibi was straight. I didn’t leave my room 
after ten o’clock the night of Dave’s death. 
You can keep it to yourself.” 

Garth drew back. 

“Felton! What are you saying!” 

“The real truth that I couldn’t prove. But 
don’t let it trouble you. I’ve killed other men 
in various ways, and as far as Dave’s concerned 
I’m guilty enough in intention. I’d have killed 
him the next day. The only reason I didn’t 
do it that night was that he taught me a lesson 
without meaning to. You remember what he 
said about killing me so cleverly that the police 
would only wonder about the flowers he’d send 
for my funeral? So I made up my mind to kill 
him that way, without paying the price, so I could 
have the laugh. I wasn’t quick enough. If I 
meet Dave up there he’ll have the laugh on me. ” 

Garth lifted his hands. 

“And there’s nothing we can do.” 

“Nothing,” Felton agreed. “But I deserve 
the chair.” 


HATE 


95 

“Then,” Garth asked, “who got the piece 
of cable, the chloroform, your handkerchief?” 

Felton smiled. 

“Guess for yourself. It came to me last 
night. ” 

A measured tread interrupted them. There 
was time for nothing else. 

Garth, Talbot, and the girl went to the war¬ 
den’s office where they sat in front of the grate 
fire. 

“Thank me for nothing,” Garth said in re¬ 
sponse to Talbot’s gratitude. “You owe every¬ 
thing to this young lady. ” 

But always, while visualizing the tragedy 
being accomplished across the yard, he asked 
himself if Felton had lied perversely to the end. 
At least it was the man’s wish that his con¬ 
fession should do the good for wh'ch it had been 
intended. 

He wondered why Baby Lennox kept her 
glance on the window which looked toward 
the town. A sense of the girl’s expectancy 
grew upon him. He asked her what she 
awaited. She did not reply, but her eyes 
slowly filled with tears. Then he saw a boy, 
who carried an oblong cardboard box, approach 
the prison through the struggling dawn. She 


96 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

went to the hall. Garth, expectant, too, now, 
followed her. Talbot remained moodily star¬ 
ing at the fire. 

“You are late,” she said with dull despair to 
the boy, who had been admitted. 

Garth saw a number of men, soberly dressed, 
streaking across the courtyard from the chamber 
into which Felton had been recently led. 

“What is in that box?” he asked the girl. 

He saw that the box was addressed to Edward 
Felton. He tore the cover off, exposing a quan¬ 
tity of splendid roses in the midst of which a 
large, unaddressed envelope nestled. He ripped 
the envelope open and started to read the few 
lines printed with pencil on a sheet of paper in 
an obvious attempt to forbid identification of 
the writer’s hand. 

“If Dave Hume were alive he’d want to 
remind you that he never lost a bet to you, Ed. 
Dave was no dude, like you. He never wore 
a wrist watch or carried his handkerchief hang¬ 
ing out of his breast pocket-” 

Garth grasped the girl’s arm. She cried out. 

“This is what you promised Hume! After 
you had told him you didn’t love him, and 
Felton had gone, he made you swear you’d buy 
these flowers and send this envelope!” 


HATE 


97 


She nodded. 

“I can tell now. He wrote the letter after 
Ed had left. He seemed to know Ed was going 
to kill him. If Ed didn’t, I could give the letter 
back to him. If he did I was to get it to Ed on 
the morning of his execution. But I fell down. 
The boy didn’t come in time. ” 

“Baby! Why didn’t you tell us?” 

“It seemed little enough,” she answered, “to 
promise Dave not to. I’d hurt him so, and 
just as he’d been told he couldn’t live more 
than a few weeks. Afterward I was afraid 
to tell because it would have made it so much 
the worse for Ed. Did I do wrong? Why do 
you look at me so?” 

Garth relaxed his grasp. He tried to smile, 
recalling Felton’s own wish. 

“No, no, Baby. This only makes it more 
certain. I’ll take this.” 

The soberly clothed men who had come from 
the death chamber were close. Garth led the 
girl back to the warden’s office. Talbot stood 
up and went to her, touching her hand with 
something like his old impulsiveness. 

“I am going to take you home now. Do 
you know, I have been praying that Felton 
knows what his confession means to me. ” 


98 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

A flush stole across her pallor. 

As Garth watched them go, side by side, he 
tore Hume’s letter into little strips. He tossed 
the pieces into the grate. He watched them 
burn, muttering as if the man were really in 
the room: 

“This is the thing to do, isn’t it, Ed?” 

When the warden entered, Garth was quite 
himself again. He said casually: 

“Those flowers outside, Warden—the girl had 
them sent. Unfortunate they came too late!” 


Ill 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 

HE case of the frozen woman, even before 
it led him to the malevolent loneliness of 



JL the Crossways Tavern, filled Garth with 
a vague, disturbing fear. 

It was toward noon of a bitter morning when 
the inspector summoned him to his office. 

“Garth,” the big man announced, “the New¬ 
town police have telephoned in one of the 
queerest cases I ever heard of. A young woman, 
beautiful, good breeding, and all that, was 
found at dawn this morning on a country road 
within three miles of the factories and houses 
of Newtown. She was bare-footed, half dressed, 
and nearly frozen to death. Her feet were 
badly torn, so she had been running. And, 
Garth, there was exactly no place for her to 
have run from. ” 

“What's the matter with any house in the 
vicinity?" Garth asked. 

“Only building nearer than Newtown is an 


99 


ioo THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


old tavern. She was picked up close by. Any 
fool knows she couldn’t have run three miles, 
or one, the way she was dressed in this weather. ” 

“Sort of puts it up to the tavern,” Garth 
drawled. 

The inspector shook his head. 

“Nothing doing. It’s a cinch she was trying 
to get to the place. Two farmers on their 
way to town found her, woke the proprietor 
and his wife up, and carried her into the bar¬ 
room. When they got her by the fire she 
opened her eyes for a minute and said: ‘Thank 
God I’m here. ’ Repeated it two or three times, 
and passed out again. They gave her coffee, 
but it was no go. She’s been unconscious ever 
since. They’ve got her in the Newtown hos¬ 
pital. Here’s the dope, as far as I’ve been 
able to land it: Her husband, Dr. Joseph 
Anderson, is a nerve specialist on the upper 
west side. Not much of a hit as a practitioner, 
but has some reputation for research. I’ve 
notified him, and he’s on his way out in his 
automobile. Seems she left home yesterday 
afternoon to spend the night with some friends 
in Newtown. Their story is that she became 
restless after dinner, complained of not feeling 
well, and decided to return to New York. She 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 


IOI 


started out alone for the station at eight o’clock. 
That’s the last seen of her until she’s picked up 
in this shocking state on a frozen woods road. 
Newtown says she must have escaped from an 
automobile passing through, and might be just 
as well pleased if the case was dropped. That’s 
darned nonsense. She seems to be an extra 
fine girl. Thing’s got me guessing. Jump the 
first train and bring me back the answer. ” 

“I think,” Garth said thoughtfully, “I’ll 
visit that tavern, unless you can suggest a more 
likely place to look for first-hand evidence. ” 

Snow threatened when Garth stepped from 
the train into the murk of the Jersey factory 
town. All the way out that picture of a woman, 
found in such a condition, had provoked him 
to numberless theories, all trending to one un¬ 
comfortable hypothesis. The inspector’s snap 
judgments were, as a rule, sound. If Mrs. 
Anderson was, indeed, of a finer sort, her im¬ 
pulse to flight in the face of almost certain 
death must have come from some abnormal 
and maddening terror. Unquestionably the de¬ 
tective’s own vague fear sprang from that 
conception. 

First of all, he visited the local police head- 


io2 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

quarters. Newtown’s bluecoats were interested 
in little beyond radical agitation in the neighbour¬ 
hood’s many mills and foundries. 

“You’d better hunt,” the chief advised, “in 
town for the automobile and the people she 
travelled with last night. The rest of it’s up to 
her husband.” 

Garth hid his exasperation. 

“You’ve investigated this tavern and its 
occupants ?” 

“Sure. She was making for the tavern. I 
tell you she must have slipped away from some 
companions in an automobile. We investigated 
the place all right. An old shell of a barn; 
been used as an inn ever since before the Revolu¬ 
tion. The proprietor and his wife have been 
struggling along toward failure. It’s too far 
away, in a big stretch of woodland that some 
plutocrat’s been holding for a rise in values 
when the town grows out that way. Prohibi¬ 
tion hasn’t helped them any, and the farmers 
haven’t liked it for some time, because it has a 
reputation of being haunted.” 

Garth remembered his theory that Mrs. Ander¬ 
son might have recoiled from some unspeakable 
shock. 

“Tell me more about that,” he urged. 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 103 

The chief, however, dealt only in the thinnest 
rumours of cries and visions. He was vastly 
amused. 

“Just the same,” Garth said, “the case starts 
there, so I’ll have to look it over.” 

“Then,” the chief answered irritably, “you’ve 
more time than I have.” 

Garth took the hint and left to seek Mrs. 
Anderson. 

The hospital brooded on the frontier of the 
grimy mill district. The detective, as he came 
up, observed a young man clinging to the fence. 
His attitude and features suggested a para¬ 
mount anxiety. The handsome pale face; the 
dark hair, worn rather long; the excellent but 
unbrushed clothing; the soft collar and flowing 
Windsor tie sketched a superior sort of workman 
of socialistic tendencies, a member of whose 
family perhaps suffered within the stained and 
sickly walls. A small closed car with a physi¬ 
cian’s cross on the radiator—probably Doctor 
Anderson’s—stood before the steps. 

Garth passed on and entered. Upstairs, in 
response to his gentle knock, Doctor Anderson 
himself opened the door of his wife’s room. 
The detective glanced sympathetically at this 
man, well beyond middle age, whose deep-set 


io 4 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

eyes were haggard; whose voice, ordinarily 
authoritative, one would guess, was now husky 
and broken. 

"Is she conscious? Has she said anything?” 
Garth asked eagerly. 

The doctor spread his hands. 

"Young man, if she lives I will be grateful. 
In addition to the exposure, I am sure she was 
heavily drugged. At the best it will be several 
days before she will be able to talk reasonably. 
I am taking her home at once.” 

"Is that safe?” 

"It is essential,” the doctor answered, "and 
the county physician agrees with me. Her 
eyes must open on familiar and friendly sur¬ 
roundings. ” 

"This hospital isn’t a very pleasant place,” 
Garth agreed. "I’m glad I caught you, for 1 
must see her and examine the clothing she 
wore. ” 

Reluctantly Doctor Anderson admitted him. 

More nearly palpable this time was the wave 
of vague fear about Garth as he studied the 
unconscious woman in the haggard twilight of 
that room. 

The set lines about her eyes and mouth 
seemed carved in ashen marble. They re- 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 105 

corded a formless horror. Her young beauty, 
distorted to that extent, assured him that the 
inspector had guessed right. She was rarely 
fine. A unique and unbearable experience must 
have sent her tortured feet along the frozen 
road. 

The bandages about her feet were red. He 
examined the clothing—delicate lingerie, a silk 
underskirt—nothing else in that biting dawn. 
When he spoke he had a feeling of addressing 
her, who lay even now apparently dead. 

“Don’t you worry. I’ll find the answer to 
this to-night.” 

He watched the orderlies carry her to the 
automobile, saw her made comfortable there 
with hot water bottles and cushions, stood in 
the road until her husband had driven her 
away. As he turned to leave he noticed that 
the pallid young man still clung to the fence. 

“Someone of yours sick in there?” he asked 
kindly. 

The young man’s voice was full of despair. 

“Oh, God, yes!” 

“I’m sorry . 99 

The other controlled himself. 

“That case that they just took out must 


106 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

have been pretty bad. She looked dead to 
me.” 

“She’ll probably be all right,” Garth an¬ 
swered. 

The pallid face flushed. 

“I know. It was that woman who was 
found nearly frozen to death this morning, and 
you’re a detective.” 

“Why does that interest you?” Garth asked 
quickly. “Who are you?” 

“A damned fool,” the other answered bitterly. 
“Good afternoon.” 

Before Garth could stop him he had dodged 
through the passing traffic. From the opposite 
sidewalk he waved a negligent hand and dis¬ 
appeared in the maze of a factory yard. 

Again along the detective’s nerves rippled 
that oppressive and singular fear. 

Garth accosted hackman after hackman. 
Either business was too brisk or the road was 
too rough. Evidently these unintelligent men 
took the ghosts of the tavern seriously. One 
went so far as to hazard: 

“Guess that woman that got frozen out there 
saw something pretty bad. ” 

Garth gave it up and telephoned the inspector. 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 107 

“I’m starting to walk to the tavern,” he 
reported, “because the jitney drivers don’t like 
it. The local Hawkshaws are asleep on the 
case, but I’ve a feeling it’s big. I’ll get them 
to drive me back from the crossroads or I’ll 
spend the night there. I simply must see the 
place and talk to those people, because I don’t 
believe for a minute she jumped from any auto¬ 
mobile. Anderson’s driving her home now. 
Get a man up to his house to meet them and 
stand by in case she should wake up and say 
anything. I’ll telephone again the first chance 
I get.” 

He set out for the Crossways Tavern. 

The rough road did show marks of auto¬ 
mobile tires, but they could be accounted for 
by the investigation of the early morning. 

It was through a turbulent dusk that Garth 
came alone to the remote building. In the 
wind, the trees, huge, gaunt, stripped of their 
leaves, made grotesque gestures against a rush¬ 
ing sky. Soon it would snow. 

The' tavern was of two low stories with a 
doping roof. At either end a square chimney 
rose. Every window was carefully shuttered. 
No gleam of light escaped. Garth’s pulse 
quickened. Had the proprietor and his wife 


io8 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

guilty consciences ? Had they run away ? Then 
he saw that out of one chimney smoke curled 
and was caught and torn by the wind. 

His distaste for the place increased. It had 
an air, curiously human, of crouching with 
sullen privacy in the shadows. It seemed to 
project to the detective a morose warning. 

He paused at the crossroads where a sign¬ 
board creaked in the wind. She had been 
found there. He could see the marks of those 
who had saved her. No matter what she had 
said inside, she must have fled from the tavern. 
Brooding among the straining, crackling trees, 
the rotten house created an atmosphere of evil. 
And again the fear enveloped him. 

He had to force himself to cross the echoing 
gallery. He grasped the door knob and paused 
before a more definite alarm. The tavern door 
was locked. With a gesture of determination 
he raised his stick and pounded on the panels. 
After a moment the stumping of feet reached 
him, but the curiously locked door wasn’t 
opened all at once. He heard a harsh voice, 
vibrating with surprise and disapproval. 

“Who’s raising that racket out there?” 

“If this is a tavern,” Garth called, “why is 
the door locked?” 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 109 

The key turned. The door swung slowly 
back. A stout, unkempt man, holding a candle 
aloft, stood just within. In the moment before 
the wind caught and extinguished the tiny 
flame Garth appraised the suspicion in the 
beady eyes, the anxiety in the man’s gross face. 
Probably the proprietor guessed his errand, and 
that, Garth knew instinctively, was a bad begin¬ 
ning. 

“It’s my tavern,” the man said surlily. 
“ Besides, there’s a door at the back. What 
you want?” 

“A bite to eat and a bed for the night.” 

“No room,” the proprietor said brazenly. 

Garth needed no more warnings. 

“Wouldn’t have thought business was that 
brisk. Sort of puts me in a hole. Then dinner 
and a glass of cider while I make up my mind 
what to do. ” 

Before the other could interfere he slipped 
past and turned down a passage in the direction 
of the smoking chimney. He saw a dim light 
at the end. The door banged behind him. 
The sound was final, uncompromising. 

Garth walked through into a low-ceilinged 
bar-room. Logs crackled in a big fireplace. 
The only other illumination came from an oil 


no THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

lamp above a tiny bar. Leaning on the bar 
was a woman who stared at him with blank 
amazement. The expression of her face was 
destroyed by a livid scar which ran across both 
cheeks and the nose. 

“Wake up, Ma,” the proprietor ordered. 
“Give him some cider.” 

Anger escaped from his harsh voice. He 
examined his undesired guest daringly. In that 
room, under those circumstances, the musical 
trickling of the liquid from tap to glass created 
an appalling dissonance. 

Garth sat down, fully aware now that his 
suspicions were just; for the proprietor did not 
smoke, yet heavy and fresh tobacco vapour 
wreathed around the lamp, was pungent in 
his nostrils. As surely as if they had stood 
before his eyes Garth knew that several men 
had at his approach hurriedly secreted them¬ 
selves in the depths of the house. His sense 
of mental discomfort fled. The excitement of 
his situation grasped him. 

“Dollars to doughnuts,” he thought, “the 
case will be solved here—if I can get away with 
it.” 

As he sipped his cider he acknowledged he 
would have to be adroit beyond the common 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 


in 


to get away with it, for in the proprietor’s beady 
eyes he read danger, a capability for murder. 

Once or twice Garth thought the man was 
on the point of speaking, but he turned and 
slipped through a doorway behind the bar, 
carefully closing the door after him. 

Then the room was filled with a whisper, so 
hoarse, so nearly void of resonance, that Garth 
for an instant doubted its source. 

“Say! What do you want here?” 

“I wanted a room,” he answered, “but it 
seems I’m not to get it. I’m dickering for some 
of this property and wanted to look it over in 
the morning. Nobody’d drive me out. Seems 
you have ghosts here. ” 

Her laughter had scarcely more vibrations 
than her voice. She glanced at the hearth. 

“Not interested at all in the pretty lady?” 
she whispered. 

“Naturally,” he said calmly, “everybody 
talks about her in Newtown.” 

“All I know,” she said with whispering haste, 
“is that they carried her in here; nearly put 
her in the fire, she was that frozen. She opened 
her eyes, grabbed my hand, and said: ‘Thank 
God I’m here.’ Two or three times just like 
that.” 


112 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Garth smiled grimly at her iteration of that 
evidence that should have cleared her house. 
Perhaps she noticed it. 

“Do you know,” she went on, “I bet you’re 
a detective?” 

“Is that the reason,” he asked, “that you 
tell me about the pretty lady?” 

She shook her head. Her scar in the fire¬ 
light gave her face an ugly leer. 

“No. Just because I like pretty ladies.” 

“Since,” he said, “I can’t have a bed, I’d 
like to telephone.” 

Her noiseless laughter slurred through the 
room. 

“Telephone! We’re not that stylish.” 

Suddenly her face assumed an odd distortion. 
She rattled the glasses about the bar. As if 
providence had resented her denial, there had 
come from far in the house the faint, quickly 
smothered tinkling of a telephone bell. He 
gave no sign. She let the glasses rest. 

“Have you got a horse?” he said. “Could 
you send me back to town?” 

She shook her head. 

“You’ll have to walk, and a bad storm’s 
coming up.” 

“Your refusing me a room in an empty hotel 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 113 

would stir me up if I were a detective,” he said. 

“If there was anything wrong with us,” she 
came back with her odd whisper, “do you think 
we’d let you go at all on your two feet?” 

Garth doubted if she had weighed the sub¬ 
stance of her threat. It must have been coin¬ 
cidence that brought the proprietor in on top 
of it. Probably he had conferred with men of 
subtler mind. His smile was bland, his voice 
hearty. 

“Find I can give you a room after all. 
Storm’s getting worse. No night to let any 
man walk three miles. Supper’ll be ready in 
a quarter of an hour. Want to go upstairs?” 

Garth expressed his gratitude, but his nerves 
tightened as he followed the proprietor, who 
had lighted a candle, along the passage and up a 
rickety staircase. 

The atmosphere of the room into which the 
man led him was tomb-like. Nor to the eye 
was it more congenial. Evidently for a long 
time it had been unoccupied, had had no heat. 
A soiled and torn comforter and a pillow lay 
on a wooden bedstead. The only other furniture 
was a chair and a washstand. Yet the pro¬ 
prietor rubbed his hands like an actor who has 
learned his part well. 


11 4 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

‘Til have the bed made up after supper. 
Reckon you can be comfortable enough here.” 

“With a little air,” Garth agreed. 

He strode to the window, raised it, and com¬ 
menced to unbar the shutters. The proprietor’s 
panic-struck haste resembled an attack. Garth 
tore his arm free, barely restrained himself from 
snatching out his revolver. 

“What’s biting you?” 

The other reached over his shoulder, banged 
the window shut, and relaxed. 

“Hard enough,” he said apologetically, “to 
keep one room in this house warm. If you 
opened a window up here it would blow us away 
downstairs.” 

His “Let well enough alone” had a special 
significance. He went out. 

“I’ll call you when supper’s ready.” 

That had the effect of a command for Garth 
to stay where he was until he should be sum¬ 
moned. As soon as he heard the proprietor’s 
pounding feet at the end of the passage he 
slipped down the stairs after him, grateful for 
the voluble voices of the wind that covered his 
progress. The bar-room door had been closed, 
for the lower passage was quite black. He 
could hear stirrings in the bar-room, and the 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 


US 

cautious muttering of men. He crept to the 
door, crouched, and placed his ear at the key¬ 
hole. What he wanted most of all was light 
on the criminal activities of this house, and 
some explanation of how they had involved 
Mrs. Anderson; but his own disposition thor¬ 
oughly concerned the lawless gathering. Some 
phrases reached him. 

“He thinks it’s Garth”—“I’d like to see that 
beauty croaked”—“Hoped he wouldn’t come 
till morning”—“You’re warming broth for him, 
Ma. Put the dope in that”—“Afterward we’ll 
decide”—“If it could be made to look like an 
accident”—“All the evidence will be out of 
sight in an hour”—“I knew last night when I 
heard the skirt was here”—“It’s plenty dark. 
Let’s get to work”—“Graves”—“One’s enough 
—a big one.” 

Then the scarred woman’s whisper, like the 
wraith of a voice, swayed in the passage. 

“Oh, Christ! I don’t want to go to the 
chair. ” 

The stirrings recommenced. Garth didn’t 
dare wait. He got back to his room, closed the 
door, and faced the facts. In the tavern were 
at least one or two metropolitan crooks to whom 
his death, discreetly contrived, would be a 


n6 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


joyous revenge. All the chances were that 
beyond the drugged sleep prepared for him lay 
the final sleep. Yet how could he go down 
there and refuse to eat without bringing the 
situation to a head and delivering himself al¬ 
most as helplessly into their hands ? 

He quietly raised the window and opened the 
shutters. What was their game that even in 
this wilderness they feared an open window? 
The frantic wind hurled snowflakes against his 
face. Without moon or stars the earth had a 
lustrous quality against which the trees made 
misshapen changing masses. It would be so 
simple to slip across the porch roof, drop to the 
ground, and run to Newtown, demanding help; 
yet to do that would mean an abandonment of 
the case, since, before he could make the distance 
in this blizzard, the evidence would be con¬ 
cealed and the tavern deserted. His curiosity 
held him. What had that talk of graves meant ? 
His grave ? 

The choice was, to an extent, taken out of his 
hands. He started. He closed the shutters 
and the window, because he wanted to be sure 
that the wind wasn’t furnishing him with the 
illusion of a woman’s cry. He tiptoed to the 
door and opened it, listening with an intense 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 117 

apprehension for the wayward sound that had 
disturbed him. 

He stiffened. It had not been the wind. 
The smothered voice of a woman keened along 
the passage. 

He thought of the rumours that had driven 
trade away from the tavern. That cry, he told 
himself, was made by no immaterial voice. In 
one of those rooms was a woman—perhaps a 
woman like Mrs. Anderson—who tried to ex¬ 
press a fear as great as hers. 

The voice had scarcely reached the lower 
floor, so he snatched up his candle and went 
along the passage. A repetition of the moaning 
guided him to the corner room. He opened the 
door cautiously. Whoever she was, she was 
alone. His glance absorbed the details of a 
room similar to his own, and as charnel cold. 
He tiptoed to the bed. A woman lay there, 
like a bundle, with a quilt thrown over her. 
The pitiful voice moaned again, and he stooped, 
and drew the covering away from the face of 
the woman. 

He conquered the cry that struggled in his 
own throat. Her presence swung the case to a 
new and incredible basis. He tried to tell him¬ 
self he was mistaken, but every detail of that 


118 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

beauty resembling perfectly cut marble had 
recorded itself in his brain. It was Mrs. Ander¬ 
son, wearing the borrowed clothing in which 
she had left the hospital with her husband for 
home. 

She lay there, indeed, as inanimate as a 
bundle, save for her eyes, which were open, 
dilated, and fearful. How could she have been 
transported from that comfortable nest in her 
husband’s car to these sepulchral surroundings? 
He spoke rapidly under his breath. 

“Don’t make a sound, Mrs. Anderson. I’m 
your friend. I’m a detective. Can you talk?” 

Her lips moved ineptly. He had to bend 
closer to hear the tired, defeated voice. 

“Go before they get you. I’m past help. 
This house is full of dead things. They’ll kill 
you.” 

“What happened after you left Newtown 
with your husband?” he demanded. 

Her fingers twitched at the edge of the frayed 
comforter. Her wide eyes filled with a passion¬ 
ate appeal. 

“Don’t bother about me. You’ve got to 
save him. Somehow. But don’t let them find 
you.” 

“ What’s wrong with this house ? ” He begged. 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 


119 

“I don’t know. I don’t know. But I know 
it’s full of death. I touched-” 

Her shoulders shook. She paused, the horror 
of her recollections gathering in an involuntary 
cry. It shook across the frozen atmosphere, 
filling the room, the passage, echoing beyond a 
doubt in the ears of those downstairs. Garth 
started for the door. 

“Courage!” he said over his shoulder. “If 
they come up pretend to be asleep.” 

Her head moved from side to side. 

“Go! Go!” 

Already the proprietor pounded along the 
lower passage. Garth got to his room and set 
his candle down. Then he ran to the head of 
the stairs, calling out: 

“What was that? Good Lord, man! Who 
screamed?” 

The proprietor mounted the stairs. 

“What you talking about?” he asked un¬ 
certainly. 

“You’re not deaf,” Garth mumbled. “I tell 
you a woman screamed as if she was being 
murdered.” 

The proprietor’s grin was feeble. 

“Come on down. Your supper’s ready. 
You’ve been hearing stories. We’re supposed 


120 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

to be haunted, but I haven’t heard any ghosts 
except the cats.” 

Garth pretended to relax. 

“Might have been at that, but it gave me a 
start.” 

He smiled grimly at the feeble excuse. Any¬ 
thing would serve that would get him to his 
drugged meal. The situation, however, pos¬ 
sessed one advantage. The man or the woman 
would have to go straightway to Mrs. Anderson 
to insure her quietness until he should be asleep. 

As Garth entered the bar-room the scarred 
woman glanced at him expectantly. The pro¬ 
prietor laughed. 

“Good thing I called him when I did. He’s 
been hearing spooks.” 

Garth followed the man’s glance to a table 
by the fireplace. A steaming bowl stood there 
with bread and butter and rough cutlery. 

“Eat it while it’s hot,” she whispered. “Ham 
and eggs will be ready in a minute. ” 

He detected no odour of frying. He made 
sure that the door behind the bar was closed. 
He glanced at the liquid in the bowl and walked 
on to the fireplace. 

“Guess it will keep hot,” he said carelessly, 
“while I warm my hands for a minute.” 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 121 

Certainly one of them would have to go to 
Mrs. Anderson. The will to violence showed 
in the proprietor’s face, but he glanced signifi¬ 
cantly at the woman. 

“Maybe,” he said, “I’d better see if one of 
those cats has got upstairs.” 

He went out. At the sound of his feet on 
the stairs Garth turned from the fire. 

“Come here,” he commanded the scarred 
woman. 

She faced him, startled. In the firelight the 
scar reddened. She opened her lips. He slipped 
around the table, grasped her arm, and, with 
his free hand, whipped out his revolver. 

“Not a sound! I am a detective, and I 
wouldn’t hesitate a second to shoot a woman 
like you.” 

She crumpled into a chair, dragging at his arm. 

“Wh—what do you mean?” 

“I’m on,” he whispered back. “If you care 
for your life you’ll play my game, for I’ll shoot 
at your first move to give me away.” 

This time her whisper had a new, fierce 
quality. 

“You’re not fool enough to think they’ll 
let you out of here alive?” 

“All the more reason for your not com- 



122 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

mitting suicide to gain a few minutes. Watch 
out now.” 

He carried the bowl to the bar, poured a 
portion of its contents in a glass, and placed 
the glass out of sight behind the bar. The 
remainder of the poisoned liquid he threw in 
the sink. He replaced the bowl on the table. 

“What’s the layout?” he asked. 

She glanced up. He hurried to the table, 
sat down before the empty bowl, and pointed 
to the bar. 

“Get back there,” he directed, “and don’t 
try to move out of my sight. ” 

The proprietor stumped down the stairs and 
along the passage. Garth fell back in the 
shadow of the chimney corner, slipping his 
revolver in a niche close to the wall, where it 
was within reach of his dangling hand but 
comparatively safe if they should search him. 
The man evidently didn’t think that worth 
while. He came in, glancing at his guest’s 
relaxed figure. 

“Swallowed it whole, eh ? A big dose. He’s 
safe until we’re through outside.” 

He pointed to the ceiling. 

“She seems quiet enough. I wouldn’t want 
to give her any more. Enough’s enough, and 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 123 

we’ll have our hands full getting rid of this 
cop without an investigation. What says you?” 

Garth, watching her closely, saw her momen¬ 
tary tremor. 

“I wish I was dead,” she whispered. 

He started for the door behind the bar. 

“May get your wish,” he grunted. 

“They don’t need you,” she gasped. “Stay 
here.” 

“The sooner the stuff’s out of sight the better, ” 
he said. “What ails you?” 

Garth gave her a warning gesture behind the 
other’s back. She caught it and repeated that 
monotonous phrase that was like a cry against 
fate. 

“I wish I was dead.” 

The man grimaced and went through. After 
a second the outer door slammed. Garth 
sprang up. 

“So far so good. Now let’s chat.” 

She displayed a tigerish fury. 

“Find out for yourself. I may be bad, but 
I’m no squealer.” 

“Oh, come now! What about Mrs. Anderson 
and her husband?” 

Her breath came in quick gasps. 

“When people,” she whispered, “run their 



124 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

noses into other people’s business whatever 
happens to them is their own fault. I’ll tell 
you this much: We hid her shoes and most of 
her clothes, so she couldn’t snoop.” 

The irony of the situation gave her scarred 
face a twisted grin. 

“ Pretty fool had never seen this room or 
me. When they carried her here she thought 
she was with friends. I haven’t got anything 
against her or you, but I’d rather see you both 
underground than that I should go to jail, and 
I’ll give you away yet. That’s all the talking 
I’m going to do.” 

“If you told the whole story now,” he pro¬ 
posed, “I would do my best to get you off.” 

“Bargain when you’re out of the woods,” 
she sneered. 

Except for the suffering woman upstairs they 
were probably alone in the tavern. If he could 
make the proprietress safe Garth would be able 
to reconnoitre the odd labour under way out¬ 
side. There was one method that he had had 
in mind when he had saved some of the poisoned 
liquid. As he started for the bar he heard the 
outer door slam. He hurried back to his cor¬ 
ner, fancying it was the proprietor. 

“No tricks!” he warned. 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 125 

But it was not the proprietor who entered. 
The anxiety of the pallid young man at the 
hospital fence was explained in part. He, too, 
must have had a share in last night’s drama. 
He came in, shaking the snow from his hat and 
coat. It was evident he had walked from New¬ 
town. The woman’s surprise was not assumed. 

“Thought you were safe,” she whispered. 
“Thought you were a quitter.” 

He did not answer. He stared at Garth. 

“A bull from New York,” she explained. 
“Had to fix his supper. They’re going to de¬ 
cide what to do about him after the stuff’s hid.” 

He moved nervously about the room. 

“A pretty mess! Suppose it had to be, 
sooner or later. Where is everybody?” 

“ Digging, ” she whispered. “ What you ought 
to be doing.” 

He cried out hotly: 

“I’d have dug a grave if I had been here last 
night. I’ve come to find out about that, and 
punish the one that let her in for this.” 

“Oh, now don’t,” she pleaded. “ Don’t make 
matters worse. ” 

“Thank heaven she’s safe at home, anyway,” 
he muttered. 

Such assurance puzzled Garth, complicated 



126 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

his reasoning. Curiously, as he studied the 
white, angry face, he found himself hoping that 
the man would not be too suddenly undeceived 
by the fact of Mrs. Anderson’s extraordinary 
return to this evil house. 

The firelight flashed across her scar as she 
glanced quickly upward. 

“Now don’t get excited,” she whispered 
quickly. “Go on out. Quick! You ought to 
help them.” 

There was a dragging movement in the room 
above, along the passage, on the stairs—a series 
of incredibly difficult sounds, coming momen¬ 
tarily nearer. 

“What’s that?” the pallid young man asked. 

While this painful progress continued she 
grasped his arm and tried to urge him toward 
the rear door. Garth resisted an impulse to 
spring to her assistance. 

“It’s nothing but the wind,” the woman 
whispered. 

The pallid young man jerked his arm away. 

“Let me go. There’s someone in the hall.” 

“No, no. Only the wind,” she lied. 

The passage door swung open, and Mrs. 
Anderson stumbled across the threshold. The 
quilt was drawn about her shoulders. She had 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 127 

the dishevelled appearance and the lack of con¬ 
scious animation of one who wanders in the 
gray lands of somnambulism. Her lips moved 
automatically, as if, all along, she had been 
urging courage by her monotonous chant. 

“ Fve got to get away. I’ve got to get away. ” 

The eyes of the pallid young man were wide. 
His mouth fell open. He gave a great cry. 

She turned, stared for an instant, then swayed 
back until the wall held her, while the quilt 
slipped from her borrowed clothing. As he 
dashed forward she raised her hands against 
him, but he overcame her feeble resistance and 
grasped her shoulders. 

“Who brought you back here?” he said 
hoarsely. 

She commenced to shake. She stammered: 

“Then you're—one of them. Oh, no! Not 
you! Take your hands away. Don't touch 
me. Can't you wait until I’m—frozen? Be¬ 
cause I'm done now. I can't-” 

She slipped to the floor. He swung her up 
in his arms and bore her toward the fireplace. 
Like a flash the scarred woman slipped behind 
him and his burden, so that they were a shield 
for her against Garth's revolver. Her whisper 
came with a gross, hysterical glee. 


128 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


“The cop’s Taking! Put the others on!” 

Garth arose, smiling. 

“She’s right. But you’ll give no alarm, 
either.” 

The other’s dark head bent over the woman 
in his arms. 

“She can’t stand any more,” he said simply. 

With grotesque motions the scarred woman 
dodged behind her shield, seeking an oppor¬ 
tunity to slip through one door or the other. 
Garth stepped around and faced her. She 
cowered, covering her deformed face. 

“You won’t kill me!” she whimpered. 

“I wouldn’t care to shoot even such a woman 
as you,” he said. 

He took from behind the bar the glass which 
he had filled with the drugged liquid. 

“Guess I’ll have to keep you both quiet,” 
he said. “You first. Take your own medi¬ 
cine. ” 

She drew back. 

“It—it isn’t safe.” 

He saw that the pallid young man was still 
occupied making Mrs. Anderson comfortable 
by the fire, so he let his revolver dangle by the 
guard, grasped her shoulders, and forced her 
head back. While she cried out, filling the 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 


129 

| room with croaking sounds, he got some of the 
i liquid down her throat. But his triumph had 
i taken more time and attention than he had 
! anticipated. He swung to find the pallid young 
man gliding through the door behind the bar. 

“Come back!” 

“Tell them!” the proprietress screamed. 

The outer door slammed. 

Garth felt the woman relaxing in his grasp. 
He lowered her to a chair, and strode to Mrs. 
Anderson. He had a few minutes before the 
gang could besiege him. 

“What made you run last night?” he asked. 

Her drowsy eyes struggled open. 

“Dead faces,” she said thickly. “I touched 
frozen faces.” 

Her eyes closed. In her condition she could 
not resist the comforting warmth of the fire. 
Garth had no more time. He ran into the 
room behind the bar—a kitchen—saw a door to 
the left, opened it, found a sort of an office in 
which a lamp burned. There it was, as he had 
expected—a telephone fastened to the wall. 
He put in his emergency call for New York 
headquarters, then dragged a table across the 
doorway. With his revolver and that barri¬ 
cade he might put up a defense for some time. 


i 3 o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

His call came quickly through, and there was 
no sign yet of an attack. In a few words he 
sketched the situation for the man at the other 
end. 

“ Force the Newtown police to hustle,” he 
said. “They should get here in twenty min¬ 
utes. I might hold out that long. ” 

“The inspector and his daughter,” the man 
in New York answered excitedly, “left for New¬ 
town nearly two hours ago. Seems Mrs. Ander¬ 
son and her husband never got home. That 
set the old man thinking; worried him about 
you. But Fll check up on Newtown. Hold 
out. Help’s sure to reach you in a few minutes. ” 

Garth replaced the receiver, listening breath¬ 
lessly. What the deuce delayed them ? If they 
should hesitate another minute he could get 
outside. He drew the table away and entered 
the kitchen. He glanced quickly around the 
bar-room. The warmth had brought a flush 
to Mrs. Anderson’s cheeks. Evidently her ex¬ 
haustion and fear were lost in a natural sleep. 
The proprietress lay back, breathing harshly. 
As he stepped from the tavern the wind stung 
his face. From the heavy snow the night bor¬ 
rowed a sort of phosphorescence. The marks 
left by the passing of the pallid young man 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 


131 

were already nearly obliterated. He followed 
the diminishing trail, running low against the 
storm, into the forest that crowded close to the 
rear of the tavern. The straining branches 
gestured him back. The woods seemed full of 
witch-like voices, which screamed at him to run 
away. 

He caught the ringing assault of metal on 
frost-hardened earth. The diggers assuredly 
had had plenty of time to trap him in the tavern, 
yet they continued their sinister task with utter 
indifference. He smiled triumphantly. The 
cause was obvious. Individual passion had 
neglected the welfare of the group. The proof 
reached him in a man’s angry cry. 

“Somebody pull him off. He’s trying to kill 
me.” 

“Drop it,” another voice called angrily. 
“We’ve got to finish here.” 

Garth crawled to the edge of a meagre clear¬ 
ing. Against the white night he saw four fig¬ 
ures rising and bending in a wearisome rhythm. 
Abruptly there drifted between him and the 
labourers in the pit two figures, interlocked, 
gasping. 

“I’ll do anything you say,” one managed, 
“only stop this madness.” 


132 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

The other apparently redoubled his efforts. 
It was as if they had struggled to this side of 
the clearing to disclose to Garth that which he 
had wanted to find ever since entering the 
tavern. The fighters stumbled against an ap¬ 
parent inequality in the white ground then 
swayed away. Garth crept closer. He saw a 
dark patch where an anxious foot had knocked 
some snow aside. That patch, his fingers told 
him, was a blanket. He ran his hand beneath 
the blanket and commenced to examine the 
evidence whose successful concealment would 
mean safety to these men. First his fingers 
encountered an oblong tin box. His lips tight¬ 
ened. He drew the box out and put it in his 
pocket. He sent his hand again on its ex¬ 
plorations. There were many similar boxes. 
He searched farther. He snatched his hand 
back, repressing the cry that struggled for 
expression. He could grin at his own timidity, 
understanding the emotions of Mrs. Anderson 
when she had stumbled on such evidence with¬ 
out any preparation or suspicion. His fingers 
still tingled. No wonder she had fled from the 
house in which these cold relics of humanity 
had lain as if to ambush her. He glanced up 
warily. 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 133 

The digging had ceased. The four men 
climbed from the pit. They separated the 
antagonists. One fell to the snow and lay 
there, moaning: 

“My leg! I tell you he’s smashed my leg!” 

It was the pallid young man’s voice that 
answered. 

“I want to finish him. Give me one of those 
picks.” 

“Lay off it,” one said roughly. “Let’s get 
these things hidden and run.” 

“What are you going to do with this fellow 
Garth?” the proprietor asked. 

“You and your wife,” another said, “can 
settle with him when he wakes up. I’ve had 
enough.” 

The pallid young man laughed. 

“Maybe I ought to have told you before. 
The detective wasn’t drugged. Shamming. ” 

The rest gathered menacingly about him. 

“You’re crooked. I’ve wondered about you. ” 

The man in the snow cried out: 

“Get those things in. Cover them up. Help 
me away.” 

He moved restlessly, groaning: 

“My leg! My leg!” 

For a moment the whole group was motion- 


i 3 4 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

less. Garth heard it, too, the shouting from 
the tavern; saw in that direction the flashing 
of many lights. 

“ Scatter!” someone screamed. 

Garth scrambled to his feet, snatched out 
his police whistle, and blew. 

“No use,” he shouted. “You’re surrounded.” 

Once more he heard that groaning voice. 

“My leg! My leg!” 

Then the echoes of a shot crackled through 
the trees and the patch in the snow was no 
longer restless. 

Men dashed into the clearing. Garth recog¬ 
nized the huge bulk of the inspector. 

“Handcuffs for these four,” he directed. 
“This fellow,” indicating the pallid young man, 
“will talk all we want.” 

He hesitated. He pointed to the motion¬ 
less figure in the snow. 

“That’s Doctor Anderson, Inspector. He’s 
just shot himself. On the whole, I guess it was 
the best thing for him to do. ” 

With the prisoners—all easily recognized as 
possessing criminal records—on their way to 
Newtown, and with Mrs. Anderson in the hands 
of the inspector’s daughter, Garth verified his 
reasoning. The inspector, the Newtown chief, 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 135 

and the pallid young man gathered with him 
about the bar-room fire. 

“So you’re Gordon Harvey,” Garth said to 
the pallid young man. “I’ve heard of you as a 
rising surgeon. I can guess how you got mixed 
up with Anderson’s gang, but I don’t see why 
you didn’t make a clean breast of it when I 
saw you at the hospital this afternoon. ” 

“You must have seen then,” Harvey an¬ 
swered, “that I wanted to tell you this tavern 
was a veritable museum of forbidden medical 
merchandise. I couldn’t, on her account.” 

“How long,” Garth asked gently, “have you 
two loved each other?” 

“More than a year,” Harvey said, “and it 
has been pretty hard, for she was too good and 
loyal even to think of a divorce. You see I 
knew her husband was a failure, and I kept 
my eyes open for her sake to find out what he 
was up to. Inside of the profession you hear 
of lots of things you don’t talk about; that the 
police can’t even guess at. I knew something 
of this sort was going on, and through his 
rather limited sources of supply it was easy for 
me to fix Anderson as the head of this crowd. 

“I don’t need to tell you, I suppose, that 
dissecting in some states is against the law, 


136 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

yet always there are men who are glad to pay 
high prices for a sub-rosa opportunity to keep 
abreast of surgical developments. Anderson’s 
car with a doctor’s cross on it could cross state 
lines with the blinds drawn without a question, 
and you’ll admit that this lonely tavern was an 
ideal base and store-house. And let me say 
now that few physicians would feel anything 
beyond an ethical repugnance for a trade that 
gave their less-fortunate brethren the benefits 
of personal research. But when Anderson took 
me more or less into his confidence I realized 
that illegally assisting his brethren at a darned 
high price was only the commencement of his 
game.” 

Garth nodded, taking from his pocket the 
tin box he had removed from the pile in the 
snow. 

“This stuff,” he said, “can be valued by the 
tens of thousands of dollars—probably the 
biggest illicit drug traffic left in the country. 
No wonder they didn’t balk at the thought of 
murder. ” 

Harvey looked up appealingly. 

“You see my position. For her sake I 
couldn’t give her husband away. And black¬ 
mail isn’t in my line. But I was planning to 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 


i37 

break the thing up somehow through him. 
There’s no harm talking now. I was desperate 
to-day when I found out what she had been 
made to suffer. ” 

“Naturally,” Garth said, “her own sus¬ 
picions had been aroused. I suppose she fol¬ 
lowed him here, or made him bring her. ” 

“Yes. At home she had answered the tele¬ 
phone for some of his accomplices. Several she 
had seen at the house. She knew he had a lot 
of mysterious business out here. She did sus¬ 
pect. She became afraid for him. Last night 
she had actually planned to spend the night 
with her friends in Newtown. Then she heard 
him make a rendezvous with one of these crooks 
at the Newtown railroad station. She decided 
to find out then, and, if there was anything 
wrong going on, to plead with him to drop it. 
That’s why she left her friends. She found the 
doctor in his automobile at the station. She 
insisted on knowing what he was doing. He 
tried to shake her off, but she wouldn’t yield. 
He fancied he could get away with it. Said he 
had a case at a lonely house that might take 
him the night, and if she would go to bed he 
would take her home in the morning. He had 
to come here last night on account of payments, 


138 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

a new deal. The gang was waiting for him. 
So he took her directly upstairs and gave her 
some drugged coffee. She came out of it too 
soon, suspected she had been drugged, was 
terror stricken, couldn’t find her clothes, searched 
about in the dark, and stumbled into a room 
where some of his museum pieces were stored. 
You can fancy the effect on a woman in her 
mental and physical condition. She told me 
a little while ago that she was out of her head 
for a time. Her one thought was to get out of 
the house, to scream aloud its secrets that she 
couldn’t understand. She got down the stairs 
and out the front door without alarming them; 
but dressed as she was, and exhausted, she 
never had a chance. When I heard what had 
happened I could have killed him, Garth. I 
came out here to-night wanting to kill him. 
Yet up to the end she desired to save him 
somehow—simply because he was her husband. 
It’s atrocious. ” 

“Rather, pretty fine,” the inspector said 
softly. 

“ Then they gave her more drugged coffee 
after they had carried her in here?” Harvey 
asked hotly. 

“Quite necessary,” Garth said. “Because 


THE DANGEROUS TAVERN 


i39 

that would keep her from talking until Anderson 
could chase to New York, establish an alibi, 
receive your report, Inspector, and get back to 
Newtown where he could continue to insure 
against her speaking. He had to keep her with 
him until he could clean up here, then he would 
| have taken her home, threatened her to silence, 
and waited until the case of the frozen woman 
had blown over before opening up again from 
this ideal base.” 

The inspector laughed. 

“He might have gotten away with it, too, 
if Garth hadn’t telephoned me to keep a man 
at Anderson’s house to report on her first state¬ 
ment. Might have gone pretty hard with you, 
Garth, if I hadn’t got suspicious when they 
didn’t show up on time.” 

The Newtown chief lighted a cigar thought¬ 
fully. 

“I’m not sure Garth wouldn’t have taken 
care of himself in any case. Pretty good man, 
Inspector. I’ll confess he was right where I 
was wrong. ” 

Harvey arose. 

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to 
see how she’s getting on.” 

“As far as I’m concerned,” Garth smiled, 



i 4 o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“you can go where you please. I’ll let you 
know if I need you in town. ” 

“I suppose/’ the inspector said after Harvey 
had left the room, “those two will be getting 
married later. Queer how happiness comes out 
of the unhappiest cases. ” 

Garth shrugged his shoulders. 

“Not so queer,” he said. “That’s the way 
the world goes on. Hello! It’s late. I’m tired 
and hungry. Maybe the chief’ll lead us to a 
bite and a bed in Newtown. ” 


IV 

THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


G ARTH entered the case of the haunted 
house at Ardell an avowed skeptic. 
Nora, who seemed to have a special 
prescience in such matters, was, on the other 
hand, uneasy from Simon Allen’s first appear¬ 
ance. Garth had called on her at the inspector’s 
flat that night. Quite unexpectedly, about ten 
o’clock, the inspector strolled in, bringing Allen 
with him. 

“What comes of being famous, Garth,” the 
inspector rumbled, letting himself down in his 
favourite chair. “Mr. Allen’s here from the 
northern part of the state with a story I can’t 
make anything out of. He wants to tell it to 
you.” 

Garth studied the stranger—a man be¬ 
tween thirty and forty years old, good-looking 
enough, and with the appearance and manners 
of one who lives more vividly within his own 
imagination than in the humdrum routine of 

141 




i 4 2 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

average existence; but the detective had never 
seen a face more haggard, or one which ex¬ 
pressed more relentlessly grief and fear. He 
saw that Nora stared, too; that some of Allen’s 
fear was already in her eyes. 

Allen’s voice shared the unhappy emotions 
of his features. 

“I’m not so sure you can do anything for 
me,” he began eagerly, “but I want you to 
try, for my own reason is in the balance. I 
want you to prove that I am not the victim 
of self-hallucination. Your cases must have 
taught you something of the tricks and the 
truths of spiritualism. Since my wife’s death 
three years ago she has appeared to me several 
times—at dangerous or threatening moments. 
It happened finally last night. I caught the 
morning train and hurried to you.” 

“A case for a doctor,” Garth thought. 

He saw, however, that Nora bent forward, 
actively impressed; so he lighted a cigar, lay 
back in his chair, and bade the man to tell his 
story, carefully, from the beginning. 

“I was married five years ago,” Allen said, 
“to an orphan, a very beautiful girl a good deal 
younger than myself. She had a lot of money. 
I had little. We lived in an old stone house a 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


i43 

mile or so from Ardell, a small and lonely 
village near the border. Besides myself she 
had only my sister and my invalid father for 
company. It was horribly depressing for her. 
I realize that now. But I imagined myself 
a poet in those days. The city was impossible 
for me. The loneliness, the aspects of un¬ 
touched nature, were my stock in trade. And 
she revolted. In desperation at last she threat¬ 
ened to leave me, and that meant, of course, 
that she would take her money. My sister, 
who has always been exceptionally devoted, 
gave me plenty of warning; but I, in my selfish¬ 
ness, made light of the whole situation. I 
didn’t see my wife sicken, just as she was on 
the point, I am sure now, of carrying out her 
threat. I didn’t realize, indeed, that she was 
going to die, until she lay, still and white, 
before my eyes, forever beyond the benefit of 
my remorse. For it was only when I had lost 
her that I realized how much I loved her. I 
broke down myself—was unable to go to the 
funeral. As soon as I could I fled from the 
house. I travelled. My sister’s letters, with¬ 
out reciting anything definite, gave me an in¬ 
creasing impression that she was living under 
some odd strain, unconnected with the care 


i 4 4 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

of my old father. I went back a little over a 
year ago, planning to spend a few nights. I 
remained just one.” 

He moistened his lips. He continued more 
slowly: 

“The house has always had the reputation 
of being—unpleasant. I mean, people have 
talked of footsteps, sighs; the more ignorant, 
even of visions. I had never seen anything 
nor heard anything I wasn’t willing to explain 
by old timbers or the weather; nor had my 
sister until Helen’s death. As soon as I entered 
the house that night I noticed the change. 
My sister looked older. Her eyes seemed con¬ 
tinually to be seeking. Her movements were 
abrupt and neurasthenic. She said it was my 
imagination. My father, however, when I was 
alone with him for the first time, spoke in his 
unnatural way—you see his mind isn’t quite 
normal now— 

“‘Helen,’ he said, ‘makes her act that way. 
Ever since she died the house has been full of 
Helen.’ 

“Although I had never thought seriously of 
spirits, this situation, combined with my guilty 
memories, and the night, and the mouldy house, 
made me restless and—afraid. I expected 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 145 

something which filled me with a great hope. 
I received a shivering impression that Helen 
was near. I longed to see her and tell her that 
I understood now and was sorry. But, you 
can understand, I shrank, also, from seeing her 
in any such fashion. 

“I slept in the room we had shared during 
two years. A dim moonlight got through the 
trees and in at the window so that I could see 
the frame of the doorway opposite my bed. I 
suppose I got to sleep at last. Then I was 
wide awake, sitting up in the bed, my heart 
choking me. 

“The door had been opened. Just beyond 
the threshold, staring at me, stood my wife. 
The moonlight seemed green about her face, 
blurring the features, as if the face itself were a 
little phosphorescent. The whole vision was as 
removed from life as it is possible to imagine 
a thing to be. Yet I never doubted it was 
Helen. I gave a great cry, and started to rise 
to go to her. The door closed noiselessly. I 
lighted my candle and ran out, but the hall 
was quite empty. I was helpless. I could see, 
but I could not communicate. It seemed like 
a punishment, bitterly cruel. Then the next 
day I received my first intimation of the warn- 


146 the communicating door 

ing quality of these visions. My sister came 
down with a nervous collapse. A country 
doctor, a good one who had looked after Helen 
and cared for my father, pulled her through. 
I couldn’t stay at the house. I lived in the 
village and drove over each day. But even 
so I understood what my father had meant. 
The house was full of Helen. Always turning 
a corner I started, feeling she was there, just 
beyond my reach, just beyond my sight. 

“When my sister was well enough I fled 
back to the city. The doctor, I am sure, loves 
her. I knew she was ia good hands. 

“The memory of what I had felt and seen 
haunted me. Four months ago I yielded to 
that unbearable, abominable temptation to see 
my wife again, to try again to talk to her. My 
father and sister, without saying anything, 
made it clear that she was still there. And one 
night, the last night, I think, I shall ever spend 
in that house, she appeared. This time she 
was actually in my room, between my bed and 
the closed door, outlined by the green moon¬ 
light, and I could see her face quite clearly. I 
fought to get to her, but something solid and 
transparent seemed to stand between us. While 
I struggled she faded. I tell you she melted 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


147 

into nothing within a few feet of my eyes, of 
my helpless hands, as if she had been of the 
substance of the fading, nocturnal light. 

“That time the warning was for me. I 
came back to the city and went to the hospital 
with as vicious a case of typhoid as you could 
wish. For weeks they expected me to die. I 
tried to persuade my father and sister to leave 
the unhealthy house. My father wouldn’t be 
moved. You see he is very old, and he was 
born and has always lived in that house. To 
die there has become a religion with him. Be¬ 
sides, Helen’s proximity does not frighten him. 
Old people are not very fearful of that which 
they so nearly approach themselves. So my 
sister is chained by him. 

“As soon as I was well I experienced again 
that dreadful temptation. You can’t fancy, 
Mr. Garth, what it is to desire an experience 
the thought of which takes your breath; to 
feel an irresistible necessity to yield yourself 
to a blind terror. ” 

He paused, and looked around. He seemed 
startled by Nora’s intent expression. After a 
moment he continued: 

“I yielded yesterday, and reached the house 
last evening. I started up the stairs with my 


148 the communicating door 

bag in one hand and a candle in the other. I 
tell you Helen stood at the head of the stairs, 
glaring down at me, as if her suffering had urged 
her to come and forbid my passage. For the 
first time I received the impression of a ma¬ 
levolent spirit, and I knew I must not try to see 
her again. My candle dropped, and I cried 
out. I don't remember. The next thing I 
remember I was lying on a sofa, my sister 
hysterically demanding what I had seen. And 
when I pressed her she admitted having seen 
a number of times a similar vision, but since 
my first experience. Before that she had only 
suffered from a mental alertness for the un¬ 
healthy and unnatural. My father, who had 
never actually experienced the—the apparition, 
said: 

“‘ Poor Helen! You wouldn’t let her go when 
she was alive, Simon, you can’t be cross with 
her for staying now that she’s dead.’” 

“It seems to me,” Garth commented when 
Allen had finished, “you need a spiritualist 
rather than a detective. ” 

Vehemently Nora shook her head. 

“A spiritualist,” she said, “is the last person 
in the world he wants.” 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


149 


She smiled at Garth. 

“He needs a hard-headed scoffer like you. 
If you felt anything, saw anything, he would 
know his mind was right enough. ” 

Allen nodded. 

“Yes, because I realize I may have suggested 
these things to my sister. I don’t think Mr. 
Garth’s type of mind would be influenced by 
unconscious hypnotism. Or if he could find 
some physical explanation, some light effect; 
if he could prove to me that my house is healthy. 
Frankly, I see little hope of that, but I have 
come to him as a last resort, because I feel 
danger to one of us must follow this third 
vision.” 

Nora touched Garth’s arm. 

“You have to help him, Jim,” she whispered. 

The inspector agreed. 

“I can get along without you at Head¬ 
quarters for a couple of days. ” 

“All right,” Garth agreed. “But let’s start 
square, Mr. Allen. I’ve no manner of belief 
in spirits. ” 

“That’s right,” Allen cried. “That’s just 
what I want. But I wonder if you’ll be able to 
tell me that after you have spent one night in 
my house.” 


1 5 o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Through the gathering dusk the next evening 
Garth looked from the train at a hilly land¬ 
scape of a peculiarly depressing outline and 
colour. There were practically no houses. 
Patches of woodland and underbrush were 
separated by rocky stretches, or hilltops that 
the wind had swept clean. 

When Allen and he left the train at Ardell 
the night was complete. Garth fancied the 
station master looked at him suspiciously. 
Without saying anything the man locked the 
station and set off for a cluster of lights that 
marked the village. 

“Give me your bag,” Allen said. 

His voice held a new authoritative note. 

“I will send it out,” he continued, “from 
the village. ” 

“But we are going together to your house,” 
Garth cried. 

“No. I want you to be free from any pos¬ 
sible mental suggestion of mine. I will come 
out in the morning for your report.” 

“Your sister expects me?” Garth asked. 

“I will telephone her from the village.” 

He pointed directly away from the lights. 

“There’s your road. About a mile from here 
you will come to two large stone gate posts. 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 151 

You’re not likely to miss them even on such 
a night. Turn in there and walk along the 
driveway to the house.” 

Garth shrugged his shoulders and set out. 
Instinctively he shrank from this lonely journey 
through a strange and black countryside. The 
road, as far as he could tell, skirted thick 
woodland. Almost at once it turned, and the 
lights of the village were blotted out. A wan 
patch in the east showed where the moon 
struggled unsuccessfully to project its light 
through heavy snow clouds. Nowhere else 
did a gleam of light escape from the sable pall. 
He received an impression that someone fol¬ 
lowed him, but he could see nothing, hear 
nothing. A sense of bleak withdrawal from the 
experienced, the comprehensible world, in¬ 
creased upon him. He stumbled on against 
an unreasonable reluctance. He came at last 
to the gate posts, found really only because 
his feet told him that a driveway swung in 
there. Once through, the world appeared 
blacker. The wind suggested that trees crowded 
close on either side. The driveway curved a 
great deal, as if to avoid them. He peered 
eagerly ahead for light. There was no light. 
He hadn’t dreamed the house was so deep in 




152 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

the woods. Allen shouldn’t have sent him off 
to feel his way about in the night, at the risk 
of losing the path, of stumbling on some pit- 
fall. He snatched out his pocket lamp and 
pressed the control. He stared, surprised, at 
the end of the sudden brilliant vista. The 
house, then, was quite blind, for the light 
reached its walls not more than fifty yards 
away; and they were gloomy, depressing walls, 
built up of a dark stone to a height of three 
stories, with closely shuttered windows and a 
door within a deep-columned portico. 

Garth climbed the steps, found the bell handle, 
and rang. Without delay he heard, muffled by 
the heavy door, approaching footsteps. The 
door was swung wide. It was as if to the oc¬ 
cupants of this remote house no terror could 
possibly come from the outside. 

The detective had a glimpse of a vast hall 
which borrowed a sort of radiance from a 
lighted inner room. He could see, therefore, 
only that a slender woman stood beyond the 
threshold. 

“What is it?” this woman said in a hurried, 
nervous voice. 

“You are,” Garth asked, “Mr. Simon Allen’s 
sister?” 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


i53 


“Yes.” 

“He was to have telephoned you about me. 
I am the detective he brought up from the city. ” 

She stared. 

“My brother hasn’t telephoned. When he 
left early yesterday he said nothing about a 
detective.” 

From the lighted room a frayed thread of a 
masculine voice issued. 

“Dora! Is that the doctor? Shut the door. 
There’s a draft.” 

Immediately after a telephone bell tinkled. 

“I daresay that’s your brother now,” Garth 
said. 

She nodded, and, after he had entered, closed 
the door and entered the lighted room. Garth 
took off his coat and hat and followed her. The 
room was square, with an abnormally high ceil¬ 
ing. Before a log fire, huddled in a great chair, 
was the figure of a man, aged and shrunken. 
Out of the wrinkled yellow face, weak eyes 
blinked at the detective while Allen’s sister 
talked at the telephone. She hung up. She 
turned. For the first time Garth saw her face, 
and he drew back, experiencing a great pity, 
at a loss for words. Suffering and fear, rather 
greater than Allen’s, were stamped across the 


154 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

woman’s features, and her hair, although she 
was probably younger than Allen, was streaked 
with gray. Her gestures, moreover, were un¬ 
even. She seemed perpetually to reach for 
objects which she never quite touched. She 
tried to smile, but Garth saw that she was on 
the point of tears. 

“It’s all right,” she said. “He had some 
trouble getting me. I am glad you have come. ” 

She walked closer. She clasped her hands, 
looking up at him. 

“Thank God you have come!” 

She was a trifle hysterical. The words poured 
from her as water tears through the abruptly 
broken sluice of a dam. 

“Company! A man! A detective, who isn’t 
afraid! If I could only get away from this 
house! But I can’t. You see that I can’t.” 

The old man’s voice quavered across the room: 

“ Don’t see why everybody wants to get away 
from this house. I shan’t go, at least. Helen 
means no harm. I was born here, and here 
I’ll die.” 

She whispered to Garth. 

“I’ll have to leave just the same, or I shall 
go mad. ” 

“Why?” he asked softly. 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


155 

“ Because,” she answered with a desperate 
earnestness, “ although no one will come to us 
here, we are never alone.” 

Yet she could tell him no more than Allen 
had already done. It was only later, in fact, 
that he had an opportunity to question her; 
for the fact that Allen, in his man’s fashion, 
neglected to mention, became evident. The 
house was without servants. In addition to 
caring for a helpless, exigent invalid, this worn 
and mentally harassed woman accomplished with 
her own hands what housework was done. 

“We haven’t been able to persuade any ser¬ 
vants to stay,” she explained wearily. 

Garth urged her not to get him anything 
to eat. 

“I really don’t need it.” 

“One has to eat,” she said in her sing-song 
voice, “and it occupies me. I never want to 
sit still and think.” 

He insisted on accompanying her to the 
kitchen—large and full of shadows, like all the 
other rooms in this echoing house. 

No. She couldn’t tell him anything beyond 
queer sounds, such as soft footfalls, rappings, 
plaintive, scarcely heard cries; and twice the 
incredible vision her brother had described. 



156 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“The house is full of her,” she whispered. 
“Probably because while she lived in it she 
suffered so. According to that I should come 
back, too. Only I don’t want to die here. I 
shan’t, either, if I can help it. ” 

And Garth sensed an imprisonment, a frustra¬ 
tion of hope, traceable to the old man who had 
lingered beyond any one’s imagining. He saw, 
too, later that evening, how great her sacrifice 
was. The door bell rang, and she came back 
with a sombre-faced man, about her own age, 
whom she introduced as the physician Allen 
had spoken of. His daily visits to care for the 
invalid, and to see the fading woman he so 
clearly loved, had impressed something of the 
house’s atmosphere on his personality. 

“I hope you will succeed where I have failed, 
Mr. Garth,” he said. “I am a man of science, 
and I have actually seen nothing here; but I 
have felt, and I have heard; and I declare with¬ 
out reservation that there is something wrong 
with this house that I can neither understand 
nor cure. ” 

It depressed Garth to find a man as intelligent 
as the doctor convinced by the fancies of neu¬ 
rotic people. 

“Oh, I’ll discover a cure somehow,” he boasted. 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


157 

Yet, as the evening advanced, particularly 
after the doctor’s departure, he found himself 
unconsciously listening for the broad, lonely, 
and dark places of the crumbling mansion to 
make themselves audible. 

At ten o’clock Allen’s sister went to a side- 
table and lighted two candles. 

“I will show you your room,” she said. “You 
will naturally want to sleep in their room.” 

The old man stirred. All evening he had 
scarcely said anything. Now his voice came 
with a whine of reproof. 

“I don’t think Helen will like strangers sleep¬ 
ing in her room.” 

The unquestioning faith of the voice made 
Garth, for a moment, go cold. 

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” the 
woman muttered in a hard voice. “Come!” 

Garth followed her through the hall, up a 
flight of broad stairs, peopled with grotesque 
shadows, down a bare and echoing corridor, 
and at last into a room, square like the one 
downstairs, and as broad and as high. Op¬ 
posite the door a four-poster bedstead stood 
between two windows. The rest of the furni¬ 
ture was massive and old-fashioned, but, in 
this light, without much form. 


i 5 8 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“I hope you will sleep well,” the haggard 
woman said, and left him. 

For a long time, while he held aloft his candle, 
Garth stared at the bed where Allen’s wife had 
died, if he was to believe Allen, of a passionate 
hatred of her surroundings. And just there, 
beyond the footboard, Allen declared she had 
materialized as if to impress on its author the 
fact that such mental dissatisfaction is im¬ 
mortal. 

Did one ever hear of such a thing? Allen 
was mad. He was impressing his madness on 
his sister. Those visions in the green moon¬ 
light could have existed only in Allen’s morbid 
and guilty fancy, from which they had been 
projected to the frightened woman. 

Such logic was not convincing. It became 
less so when he had blown out the candle and 
had climbed into the huge, cold, and damp bed. 
Only enough light escaped from the strangled 
moon to make the heavy, ill-defined shadows 
restless. Garth grew restless in harmony. His 
task here was to wait; and, as the laggard 
minutes drifted on, that task became more 
difficult than any he had ever undertaken. 

After a long time he found himself listening 
with a strange acuteness. He was sure he had 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 159 

not heard anything, and yet he had reacted 
i exactly as if he had. No, of course he had 
heard nothing- 

But that was something now. What was 
that ? 

He sat upright, straining his ears. He heard 
the persistent wind, but there was something 
beyond that, something very far away, whose 
direction he could not determine, as if it came 
from space itself, actually from beyond the 
wind and the night. 

Now he began to understand. Someone 
strayed with strange footfalls. But did this 
wayward pacing come from the house or out¬ 
side ? The sounds were so faint, so soft, so 
irregular, he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to 
be sure. 

He lighted his candle. The shadows drew 
sullenly away. He sat for a long time, listening, 
while the footfalls continued; seemed, without 
increasing in physical pressure, to stray nearer; 
glided, at last, he was convinced, along the cor¬ 
ridor toward his door. 

He slipped out of the bed, picked up his 
flashlight, and silently crossed the room. He 
made no attempt to deny his breathless anxiety, 
or the fear which rippled along his nerves. 


160 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


Fear, for that matter, had never failed to 
stimulate his mind, or to gather more service¬ 
ably his physical resources. He would not be 
taken unawares, and he would find out what 
was in the hall. 

Abruptly he flung open the door and flashed 
his lamp. He stared. The corridor was empty, 
yet for a time he would have sworn that sur¬ 
reptitious feet glided through that emptiness. 

He caught his breath. He bent over, listen¬ 
ing with a vast unbelief. A thin, desperate 
voice gathered itself in a cry, not loud, but 
more arresting than the shrillest scream. It 
wavered through the house. It fell away, as 
the groping feet ceased their seeking, into the 
smothering silence; and the silence became like 
a great weight on his soul. It placed inaction 
beyond his powers. He could not go back to 
his bed. He felt he could never rest again until 
he had found the source of that straying, of 
that unearthly release of suffering. If only he 
knew the location of Miss Allen’s room. He 
called her name softly. 

After a moment a door nearly opposite 
opened. She stood there, holding a candle, a 
dressing-gown drawn about her thin and shak¬ 
ing shoulders. The haggard fear in her eyes 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 161 

was as hard to face as that which he had just 
heard. 

“If only,” she whispered, “you might have 
told me that you were awake yet had noticed 
nothing. ” 

She paused and bent forward, listening. He, 
too, grew rigid. Again the unseen feet strayed, 
close at hand, then far away, always seeking, 
at last drifting again into the night. 

Miss Allen set her candle on the floor, leant 
against the door jamb, covered her face with 
her hands, and sobbed unevenly. 

“We are helpless,” she said after a time. 
“It serves us right. We were not kind to her. 
I did not love her enough. I was jealous of 
my brother. ” 

To Garth her words suggested too much 
mental tragedy. He crossed the corridor, and 
put his hand on her shoulder. 

“We’re not going to give way to anything 
like that,” he said. “Get your clothes on. 
You’ll guide me about this house. I’ll search 
every rat-hole until I find whoever or what¬ 
ever made those sounds. ” 

His confidence, nevertheless, waned when he 
had dressed and had explored with her the 
decaying intricacies of the house. Great, empty, 



162 the communicating door 


echoing rooms; endless attics odorous with rot¬ 
ting lumber and the contents of ancient boxes 
and trunks—he searched them all and found 
nothing; and always in these gloomy places he 
had a feeling that Allen’s sister and he did not 
walk alone. More than once he failed to con¬ 
quer the impulse to glance back over his shoul¬ 
der. Each time she whispered: 

“You feel as if there were someone else?” 

“That’s natural enough, I suppose,” he mut¬ 
tered, “after what we’ve heard.” 

But such sensations were new to him. He 
faced her in the lower hall at last, having found 
nothing, yet determined not to surrender. He 
put on his hat and coat. 

“I shall look for footprints outside.” 

She got a cloak and accompanied him. 

“You will find nothing,” she said. 

A light wet snow fell. It wasn’t deep enough 
to have obliterated any marks made at the time 
they had heard the footsteps. It offered, how¬ 
ever, no record. Garth flashed his light here 
and there, at a loss. He saw a rough path 
which wandered from the side of the house 
between stripped underbrush, rattling in the 
wind. With a swift gesture the woman touched 
his arm. 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


163 


“Where are you going?” she gasped. 

Her manner startled him. 

“I am going to see where this path leads.” 

She drew back. 

4 ‘Then you know what is at the end of the 
path?” 

He shook his head. 

“Don’t go there,” she cried wildly. 44 1 am 
afraid.” 

“Why? Why?” 

Her shivering became more pronounced. She 
replied through chattering teeth: 

“Be—because Helen is there.” 

He realized there was no use questioning her 
further. He started down the path. After he 
had gone a few paces he understood, and he 
drew back, too, although momentarily, from 
this sanctuary in the heart of the underbrush. 

His light gleamed on stained wet walls with 
a curved roof. Facing him was an iron door 
with a small grating. There were slight marks 
in the snow here, not, apparently, made by 
shoes, but light and incomplete depressions, as 
if something had passed this way with less than 
normal pressure. They urged him ahead. 

“It is locked,” she whispered when they were 
at the black door. “The key is in the house.” 



164 the communicating door 

But he had placed his hand on the knob, 
and he turned it as a matter of course. The 
door swung open. The woman cried out. 

“I tell you it was locked,” she whispered. 
“I tell you it is always locked, except when 
someone is taken in.” 

“And after you had imagined this vision!” 
he said. “Did you find it locked then?” 

Slowly she shook her head. 

“But it was not opened with the key,” she 
whispered. “It is a large key. It is always 
kept on the shelf by my father’s chair. ” 

He took a deep breath and stepped in. He 
felt himself bathed in a repellent and abhor¬ 
rent atmosphere—bitter cold, damp to the 
point of moisture, redolent of earth and de¬ 
cayed vegetation. 

The room which he searched with his light 
was not large. One wall was given over to the 
entrance. In each of the three others were two 
deep oblong niches. In each niche rested a 
stained metal coffin. From the roof water 
gleamed in the rays of his lamp, dripping with 
a throbbing rhythmical and persistent. 

“Which is hers?” he asked softly. 

She indicated the upper niche to the left. 
With a sense of intrusion he tiptoed closer and 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 165 

turned his light on the casket. The plate was 
tarnished and partly covered with mould. With 
difficulty he deciphered it. 

“ Helen Addison Allen, beloved wife of Simon 
Allen.” Then the dates, and, ironically, it 
occurred to him, “ Requiescat in Pace” 

“She was very young to die,” he said wonder- 
ingly. 

“Too young,” she whispered. “She might 
not have died if we hadn’t kept her here. I 
wish to God I had been kinder to her.” 

For the first time in this place he spoke aloud, 
boasting. 

“You can put it down, Miss Allen, that no 
1 matter how she suffered, she has never come 
back. She has never left that box.” 

The echoes from the vaulted roof jibed at 
him. She gasped out defensively: 

“Don’t say such things in here. What is 
that? Let us go. Quick! Oh, my God! What 
is that?” 

At first he did not realize what had startled 
her: had made her go weak and white; had 
filled her with a far greater terror than she had 
yet confessed. There it was again. A series 
of dull raps, as nearly as he could analyze it, 
as if one struck metal with a muffled hammer. 




166 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


"Who’s that?” he cried. 

Miss Allen cowered against the wall. The 
rapping ceased. For the first time Garth no¬ 
ticed a trap door in the centre of the floor. 

"Where does that go?” he asked. 

She barely managed to answer. 

"The entrance to the vault below where 
many Allens who died a long time ago are laid 
to rest. ” 

She staggered to the door and stumbled out. 
He followed, at a loss; more uncomfortable than 
he cared to acknowledge. Thoughtlessly he re¬ 
leased the control of the lamp. With the effect 
of a physical attack the darkness rushed upon 
him. He cried out involuntarily. Something 
had touched him. He couldn’t deny its nature. 
A hand, soft and charnel cold, had brushed his 
cheek. He had been aware of the contact of 
each dreadful finger. He flashed his lamp again. 

"What was it? Tell me what it was!” Miss 
Allen said. 

"Hush!” 

Apparently from the tomb came a low, de¬ 
risive laugh. It altered to an expression of 
grief and was lost in the night. 

Miss Allen screamed once, then swayed, and 
sank in a heap to the whitened path. Garth 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 167 

turned the light on her face, and knew that 
his pursuit for that night was ended. For a 
moment he was afraid she had stopped breath¬ 
ing. He had never seen a clearer case of shock. 
He swung her in his arms and hurried with 
her to the house, looking constantly into the 
blackness behind him, convinced that he was 
followed by whatever had given him that death¬ 
like touch, by whatever had terrified Miss Allen 
almost to the point of death. 

He glanced at the shelf. The heavy key 
rested there, as she had said. 

It was a long time before the heat of the 
living-room fire and the simple remedies he 
could apply brought her back to a half con¬ 
sciousness. It was only then that he dared 
telephone the tavern at the village, demanding 
Allen’s return, and Doctor Hannay, telling him 
that he should come at once. She stared at 
him with voiceless questions. And all this time 
the old man, who evidently spent his nights as 
well as his days in the great chair, mumbled to 
himself, only once or twice growing coherent. 

“Why, what’s the matter, Dora? You let 
Helen frighten you again?” 

“Helen’s been in here to-night. I couldn’t 
see her, but I heard her. She is restless.” 



168 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


Or: 

“Helen's only lonely. She wants company. 
It's wicked of you to be afraid of her." 

Allen, and the doctor a little after him, ar¬ 
rived with the leaden commencement of a 
threatening day. As the gray light strength¬ 
ened the woman, to an extent, responded to 
the doctor’s stimulants, and he carried her to 
her room. 

“I think she will sleep," he said when he 
had come down. “Allen, I have waited a long 
time for her. Unless you let me marry her 
and take her away from this house, it will be 
too late." 

Allen gestured helplessly. He indicated the 
drowsing old man. The doctor shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“He may last for years." 

“We will see. We will see what can be done," 
Allen promised vaguely. 

Garth walked to the gate with the doctor. 
For the first time he could appraise the over¬ 
grown, the desolate aspect of the estate. 

“Gloomy enough to harbour ghosts, in all 
conscience," he muttered. 

“And I believe it does!" the doctor said 
fiercely. “There is no other answer. I have 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 169 

done my best. There is no cure for that house. 
There is no cure for those who remain in it. 
Help me to persuade Allen to clear his sister 
out. That is all you can do, Mr. Garth. Be¬ 
yond that you must realize you are wasting 
your time here.” 

Garth shared the man’s discouragement, but 
his own peace of mind, his mental self-respect, 
were at stake. He told Allen more elaborately 
every event of the preceding night. 

“ At least, it’s not just my own morbid fancy,” 
Allen said. “Are you through? You have no 
hope to offer?” 

“I am not through,” Garth said stubbornly. 
“I am going to search the house again by day¬ 
light. And I want to examine the vault near 
1 which I heard the rappings and the cry: where 
I felt that unbelievable touch.” 

“It is never quite daylight in the vault,” 
Allen said gloomily. 

Yet after he had spent hours in his examina¬ 
tion of the house, measuring, sounding each 
wall, Garth had to confess himself beaten there. 
It was late afternoon when he gave up and 
turned to the tomb. He took a crowbar 
found in the barn. The door stood open as he 
had left it the previous evening; but Allen had 


170 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

been right. The late light seemed incapable 
of penetrating the gloomy vault. Snow, how¬ 
ever, had whirled in, and made a white heap 
on the trap door. Garth lost some minutes 
clearing this away. Then he failed to find the 
mechanism of the trap, so that by the time he 
had broken the stone to get leverage for his 
crowbar the dusk outside was thick. 

He pried the heavy door up. His light dis¬ 
closed a flight of stone steps. He descended 
cautiously into the pit, experiencing again that 
uncomfortable feeling that he was not alone. 
At the foot of the stairs he found himself in a 
species of cave, larger than the room upstairs 
and containing more stained caskets. But 
he failed to unearth any hiding-place, any 
paraphernalia of trickery. The room was clearly 
a mortuary—nothing more. 

Then what had brushed his face the previous 
night? He was glad to start up the stairs. 

He paused, his heart in his throat. What 
was that black form partly hanging over the 
open trap as if to forbid his exit? The light 
showed him no face, but the black patch seemed 
to move. He whipped out his revolver. 

“Who are you? You stay there until I can 
find out.” 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


171 

But the black thing slipped from view, and 
a brief and scarcely heard laugh reached him. 
He ran on up, his revolver ready. A woman 
in black stood with a hand on Mrs. Allen’s 
coffin. 

“Now, let’s see,” he cried. 

But he was wary of some impossible vanish¬ 
ing, or a defence against which he would be 
helpless. Then the black figure turned and 
spoke, and Garth lowered his revolver, spring¬ 
ing forward. 

“Please don’t shoot me, Jim. There really 
isn’t time.” 

“Nora! What are you doing here?” 

“Hush! Not so loud. Maybe I came to 
make sure you wouldn’t go back to town con¬ 
verted. There’ll be time enough for all that 
later. Now we must work. I’ve looked every¬ 
where for you. It’s dark, but you have your 
light.” 

She climbed to the lower niche so that her 
head was above the level of Mrs. Allen’s casket. 

“Take your crowbar,” she directed. “Lift 
the top of this box. I want to see inside.” 

“Nora!” 

“I’ll take my chances,” she said impatiently. 
“I’d have done it without you if I’d had the 


172 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

strength. The screws are all loose. Hurry!” 

With a sense of sacrilege he obeyed her. She 
laughed lightly and jumped down. He started 
to climb in her place, but the crowbar slipped 
and the lid fell with a dull resonance. Before 
he could insert the instrument again Nora 
grasped his arm. 

“ We’re making too much noise/’ she 
whispered. “What was that? I thought I 
heard-” 

Garth’s excitement flamed. 

“Nora! You mean it is empty? Mrs. Allen 
—the money—I’d thought of that.” 

“If we’re too late!” she whispered, staring 
from the door. “I thought I heard-” 

She sprang out. He followed her. She 
pointed to a woman’s figure, scarcely seen, 
that ran along the path to the house. 

“Catch her, Jim,” she urged, “or we’re 
beaten.” 

He ran as hard as he could with Nora tearing 
after him, but the figure of a woman reached 
the portico and got through the door ahead of 
him. The door slammed in his face, but he 
grasped the knob, pushing with all his strength, 
so that the key could not be turned. Nora 
ran up and added her strength. The door was 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


173 

released. They stumbled into the dark hall. 
But a light burned in the inner room, and they 
heard feet running there, and Allen’s voice: 

“Why aren’t you in bed? What in the name 
of Heaven’s happened?” 

Garth and Nora entered. The old man 
clutched at the arms of his chair as if he reacted 
to an absurd ambition to rise. Allen’s sister 
was at the telephone, frantically rattling the 
receiver, while Allen stared. 

“Quick! Quick!” the woman urged des¬ 
perately. “Two—four. Doctor Hannay’s resi¬ 
dence.” 

“Take the telephone from her, Mr. Allen,” 
Nora directed. “No questions now.” 

Allen’s face twisted with pain, but he moved 
to obey. His hand caught the telephone and 
drew it away from his sister’s mouth. But 
she struggled with a desperate, an unsuspected 
strength. Nora nodded. 

“Help him, Jim. She mustn’t be heard over 
that telephone.” 

Garth caught the woman’s arms and forced 
her across the room. Nora made a rough gag 
with her handkerchief. 

“Take the telephone,” she said to Allen. 
“Tell Doctor Hannay that your sister is worse, 


i 7 4 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

and that the detective has lost his nerve and 
quit. The doctor must come at once.” 

Allen started to protest, but the doctor was 
connected, and he obeyed, at a loss. 

“He’s coming right over,” he said when he 
had replaced the receiver. “I’ve done what 
you wished. I have a right to know. What 
has my sister done that you treat her this 
way?” 

Nora lowered the handkerchief. 

“Let her go, Jim. I think she realizes the 
game is up.” 

Garth relaxed his grasp. The exhausted wom¬ 
an leaned against the wall, breathing harshly. 

“Your wife, Mr. Allen,” Garth said un¬ 
certainly, “is not in here-” 

“Stop, Jim!” Nora cried. “He might not 
understand. Come, Mr. Allen! Bring your 
sister with you. We’ve plenty of time before 
the doctor arrives. ” 

She led them down the path between the 
rattling bushes to the sepulchre. The shiver¬ 
ing woman shrank from the charnel dampness 
of the place. 

“I sounded all these boxes,” Nora said, 
“and I can tell you which happen to be empty 
just now, and which are not. I couldn’t lift 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 175 

the trap, but we can easily find out about the 
boxes in the lower vault. ” 

She tapped the casket which bore Mrs. 
Allen’s plate. 

‘'This one is not empty. Please get the lid 
up again, Jim.” 

Garth worked with an increasing excitement, 
knowing very well that Nora was not one to 
make mistakes. He pried the lid open. Allen 
and he climbed up so that they could peer 
within the casket. At once Allen sprang down, 
and, ashamed and angered, stared helplessly 
at his sister. For a moment Garth clung there, 
appraising with a sense of sheer wonder a 
fortune in cloths, silks, jewels, furs—luxuries 
that had not paid thousands of dollars in duties 
at the frontier but that would now. He 
gasped as he approximated the value of the 
contents of the other desolate-appearing boxes. 
He stepped down and glanced with a sort of 
admiration at the beaten woman. 

“I know. Miss Allen,” Nora said quietly, 
“that you and the doctor are not the only 
ones implicated. There are some very pros¬ 
perous people in this little village. If you 
cared to turn State’s evidence now-” 

“She’ll tell all she knows,” Allen said harshly. 




176 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“ I want to save the doctor, ” she pleaded. “ I 
did it for his sake. But I will talk.” 

Garth went ahead of them toward the house 
to welcome the doctor. 

“Maybe,” Nora said later in reply to Garth’s 
questions, “it’s because I am superstitious and 
know something about the habits of spirits that 
I caught points in Allen’s story you missed. 
Why was the face in the first vision blurred 
and phosphorescent? So that he couldn’t tell 
at a glance he wasn’t seeing his wife; and to 
frighten him. Then I wondered that a door 
had to be opened and closed. I was sure there 
had been no spirit that time. I thought of a 
ghost that might live across the hall, and his 
sister was the only woman in the house.” 

“I missed that,” Garth admitted. “Any¬ 
way, my idea was to prove to Allen that there 
wasn’t anything spooky about his house. The 
second vision I always put down to his fever 
and his desire to materialize his wife, but the 
third puzzles me even now. ” 

“That,” Nora answered, “was what made 
me sure something was wrong. The first vision, 
instead of keeping him away, urged him back 
to see his wife. So it was necessary to make 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


177 

him think his wife was unfriendly and didn’t 
want him. I could see that it was simple to 
fool the old man, but they had to frighten 
everybody else off, even Allen. Logically, there¬ 
fore, the house was the centre of some big 
conspiracy. The doctor was implicated at the 
start, because Allen had said there was an 
attachment between him and his sister, and it 
seemed queer such a good man should waste 
his talents in this little village. Since you were 
to come, announced as a detective, there wasn’t 
much chance of your getting at the truth. 
So I decided to slip up and observe from the 
outside. I quietly took your train. I got off 
on the side away from the station. I followed 
you. I had a flashlight and explored the 
grounds. As you know, the front door was 
kept unlocked for the convenience of these 
people. I think I heard everything you said 
that night, and I saw the doctor come back to 
help Miss Allen with her trickery. They ex¬ 
pected to scare you away before anything was 
discovered. It was necessary. There was too 
much money involved. 

“ I saw the big key on the shelf, and it seemed 
reasonable it would open the tomb. I was 
anxious to examine that, for I thought, at first, 


178 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

as you did, that the whole thing might be a 
conspiracy against Mrs. Allen; that she might 
be alive and a prisoner.” 

“Why, Nora,” Garth asked, “did you 
frighten Miss Allen and me last night at the 
tomb?” 

“Without disclosing myself,” Nora answered, 
“I wanted Miss Allen to know someone was 
secretly watching the house. Her really se¬ 
rious fright was the final proof of her guilt. 
And the ruse succeeded. I took pains to over¬ 
hear her first private interview with the doctor. 
She told him, when he had carried her up¬ 
stairs, that you weren’t the only one to fear— 
that there was a spy who really suspected some¬ 
thing. They agreed that she was to warn him 
at the first definite sign of danger, and that he 
was to run across the border. But they said 
nothing to give away the nature of the game, 
so I couldn’t act until I had real evidence. 

“My first inkling of the truth came when I 
realized what a splendid hiding-place for for¬ 
bidden merchandise that tomb was. In any 
case, I was afraid to stay around here by day¬ 
light, so I followed the main road to the custom 
house. The chief knew my father, and he 
talked willingly enough. He told me of the 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE 


179 

enormous leak for more than two years that 
they hadn’t been able to stop. I promised to 
get his smugglers. That’s all, Jim. I hurried 
back, and found you, and learned what was in 
those boxes. It all comes down, as so many 
cases do, to a woman’s mad infatuation for a 
man.” 

“Ghosts and women,” Garth mused, “seem 
to be a little beyond me.” 

He smiled. 

“Even you’ll admit, Nora, that it would be 
helpful if I could take them more to heart.” 


V 


DEFIANCE 


D OUBTLESS because there exists be¬ 
tween the dinner table and the con¬ 
sultation room a distance to be over¬ 
come only through pronounced and painful 
effort, Stacy Baldwin and his wife, Anna, 
carried their physical caprices to a physician 
less fortunately placed socially than Dr. Jimmy 
Wilmot. On his part Wilmot was sufficiently 
grateful, for it would have been his duty to 
hound Baldwin with his belief that that young 
man was riding in reckless flight straight 
toward an evil cropper; and, in the darkened 
seclusion of his office, he admitted to himself, 
he couldn’t possibly have hidden from Anna 
the sympathy of his heart, or his great love 
which had survived the shock three years be¬ 
fore of her dreadfully unfortunate marriage. 

He was, therefore, open-mouthed when his 
man came to him late one October night, 
announcing that Mr. Stacy Baldwin was down- 

180 


DEFIANCE 181 

stairs and would be grateful if the doctor 
would see him. 

What the deuce could Baldwin want of him? 
Probably the waster was involved in some 
unique difficulty, and of course Wilmot would 
have to receive him, for Anna’s sake, if for no 
other reason. 

When the doctor entered the consultation 
room Baldwin, his evening clothes slightly dis¬ 
ordered, paused in the midst of a nervous 
pacing, disclosing an abnormally white face 
and eyes that were wide with aggressive in¬ 
terrogation. 

“ Sorry to knock you up, Jimmy. Seemed 
simplest thing to do.” 

His voice wasn’t quite steady. His attempt 
at a laugh failed. 

“Sit down,” the doctor said curtly, “and 
tell me what’s wrong with you besides the fact 
that you’ve had too much illicit stuff to drink.” 

“Wouldn’t bother a sawbone for anything 
so normal as that,” Baldwin grinned brazenly. 

The frightened, questioning light came back 
to his eyes. He glanced anxiously around. He 
moistened his lips. 

“Don’t think I’m binged, Jim, or off my 
pate; but, gad! I’ve had a start.” 


182 the communicating door 


He sat down and leaned toward the doctor. 
Again he wet his dry lips. 

“Fact is, a few minutes ago somebody— 
somebody tried to kill me.” 

Wilmot’s first incredulity shrank before the 
other’s patent earnestness. He poured the 
man a glass of brandy, and watched him gulp 
it down. He helped Baldwin off with his coat 
and waistcoat, and saw some ugly stains be¬ 
neath the left arm. He cut the linen away 
and ran his fingers lightly over the flesh. After 
a moment he glanced up. 

“You’re a lucky devil.” 

Baldwin shivered. 

“Always was that, Jim.” 

“Daresay you’ve needed a bit of luck,” 
Wilmot muttered; “certainly never more than 
to-night. A couple inches to the right and the 
coroner would have been pawing you over in¬ 
stead of me. It’s nothing. The bullet passed 
between your upper arm and your body. No 
point destroying any more fine raiment. Get 
those things off, and I’ll make you nice and 
safe from infection.” 

Baldwin nodded. 

“That’s why I thought I’d better come. 
Didn’t fancy I was much damaged. Lay you 


DEFIANCE 183 

long odds I gave a hanged sight more than I 
got.” 

But the doctor expressed no curiosity until 
his work was completed. 

“That will be more comfortable/’ he said, 
as Baldwin struggled into his clothes. “Are 
you making a secret of who offered the com¬ 
pliment?” 

Baldwin’s eyes resumed their anxiety. He 
commenced again to pace the room nervously. 

“No idea who tried it. That’s what worries 
me.” 

He swung around, his face white and drawn. 

“And what makes it worse, it happened in 
my own house—in my own front hall. Gad, 
Jimmy! That’s what staggers me. That’s what 
gives me the jumps.” 

Wilmot whistled. 

“Don’t wonder. When I ran into you at the 
club to-night I thought you said you were alone. ” 

“Right. Anna’s up country. Sort of soured 
on the city. All the servants with her except 
my man, Manuel; and he sleeps under the roof. 
Out of the question to doubt him, anyway. 
Faithful unto death. You know the sort. 
Would follow dear master to the very jaws of 
Hades. Anyway, I let myself in. May re- 


184 the communicating door 

member, the street lamp throws a lot of light 
in the hall. I recall seeing the switch, and 
reaching out for it as I shut the door—then 
the—the thing happened.” 

He shivered again. 

“Couldn’t have been half an hour ago. That 
seems funny! Might have been lying up there 
now-” 

“Go on,” the doctor encouraged him. “You 
had just shut the door. You hadn’t turned on 
the lights.” 

Baldwin’s face grew chalkier. He spread 
his hands. 

“A flash from between the drawing-room 
curtains; a bang, not much of a one; a pain 
under the arm; and there you are!” 

With grim satisfaction he repeated his odd 
boast. 

“But I’ll lay you I gave better than I took.” 

“You mean you caught the fellow?” the 
doctor asked. 

Slowly Baldwin shook his head. 

“It was pitch black with the front door 
closed, but the flash told me an arm had been 
thrust through the hangings. As a sawbone 
you know how quickly one reacts in an emer¬ 
gency, and you’ve seen that loaded walking 


DEFIANCE 185 

stick I carry. I struck just behind the flash 
with all my might.” 

An evil triumph scarred his weak face. 

“It found flesh. Felt it. I tell you, if I 
didn’t break a bone I gave a beastly bruise.” 

His eyes narrowed. 

“The next few days I’m going to suspect 
everybody I see with an arm in a sling. That 
blow, as I say, was automatic. After that for 
a minute I was up a tree, sort of feeling myself 
over, wondering if I was going to drop dead. 
Gave the scoundrel his chance to get away. 
Too bad to disappoint him, ’cause he’ll expect 
to read in the morning papers that I’m an 
angel. Heard steps, but by the time I got to 
the service entrance it was too late. I woke 
Manuel up. He hadn’t heard the shot, and 
he hadn’t let any one in.” 

“Been giving your latchkeys around?” Wil- 
mot asked. 

“Not I. Bad plan! That kind of friend 
might appear inconveniently, ’cause Anna does 
condescend to show herself in her husband’s 
home occasionally; but keys have a most annoy¬ 
ing habit of getting lost. Mean to say an 
enemy might possibly have got a key, though 
it’s dashed unlikely.” 


186 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


The doctor frowned. He wasn’t sufficiently 
familiar with the routine of Baldwin’s habits 
to be of much value as an adviser. 

“What did you do between the time I saw 
you at the club and your arrival home?” 

“Picked up Bill Dungan. You know Bill.” 

He must have read Wilmot’s disapproval, 
for he hurried on apologetically: 

“You fellows are a pack of frumps. Just 
because Bill’s a rough diamond with the wealth 
of Croesus is no reason for treating him like a 
worm. ” 

Wilmot made a wry face. 

“If only he wasn’t an early and often worm, 
Baldwin!” 

“Naturally he wants to climb,” Baldwin ad¬ 
mitted, “and you’ll have to admit the missus 
has something.” 

“Beauty,” the doctor said, “but she’s the 
same sort—a climber without a single rung of 
polish or breeding. Never mind. What did 
you and Croesus do?” 

At last Baldwin’s cheeks held some colour. 

“One always earns the disapproval of one’s 
sawbones. Anyway, you’re not a dominie. 
Give you my word, Jimmy, I’d love to be a 
pillar of society like you; just can’t carry the 


DEFIANCE 187 

load. I took Bill up to Estelle Smith’s. She 
isn’t twinkling toes until her new show opens 
next week, and she was giving a big party for 
some curly-headed Hams and some bad eggs 
like me. Give you my word, we only got a 
little fried. We both decided the show was too 
enormous for fun, and ducked it. Bill had an¬ 
other shindy on, but I felt virtuous and decided 
to pass it up and go home for a good night’s 
sleep. Wish to the deuce now I hadn’t. And 
that’s all. Hang it, I can’t even make a guess. ” 

It was difficult for Wilmot to speak, yet he 
knew he had to. He couldn’t bear the thought 
of an underworld scandal reflecting itself from 
her worthless husband to Anna Baldwin. At 
last he got it out. 

“You’re not fancying the police might help? 
I mean, there’s no real harm done, and it would 
be pretty disagreeable for Anna.” 

Baldwin’s face flashed anger. 

“You’re precious thoughtful of Anna, dear 
doctor. May be tough on her she didn’t marry 
piljar of society like you. Just beg to remind 
you she didn’t. Must say it’s friendly to want 
me to give this fellow unlimited pot shots 
simply to spare Anna a little unpleasantness.” 

“Don’t be an ass, Baldwin.” 


188 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


Baldwin’s eyes narrowed. 

“No intention of being. Make you feel any 
easier, Fm keeping away from the police for 
my own sake. Simply can’t afford to shove 
all the divorces and politics off the front page. 
That’s why I came to you: knew I could trust 
you.” 

Wilmot didn’t hide his relief. 

“Then what’s your idea?” 

“To take jolly good care of myself while I 
sleuth-” 

He broke off, glancing up inquiringly. A 
discreet rap had sounded on the door from the 
reception room. 

Wilmot was equally startled, for it was well 
after midnight. 

“Come,” he called impatiently. 

His man glided in, closing the door softly 
behind him. 

“Well? What now?” 

“There is a lady in the reception room, sir.” 

“You know perfectly well,” Wilmot accused 
him, “I’m not accustomed to receiving patients 
in the middle of the night.” 

“Yes, sir. I explained it to her, but she 
seemed in a great deal of pain, and insisted. 
Since you were in here, sir, I thought-” 



DEFIANCE 


189 

“When you commence to think, Jamieson, 
you cease to be useful. What’s her name?” 

“She wouldn’t give her name, sir.” 

“What? Then I shan’t see her.” 

“Said her name was of no consequence, but 
she is really suffering, sir. ” 

Wilmot turned irritably to Baldwin. 

“A physician can’t turn his back on suffering, 
but I wish you wouldn’t run off just yet. I’d 
like to know what you’re going to do. If I 
could help you-” 

“ I’ll wait, ” Baldwin grinned. “ Know you’re 
no blind admirer of mine, Jimmy, but you 
might offer a poor devil a shake-down. I’ve 
no intention, at least, of going back to my 
cheerful home.” 

Wilmot nodded. 

“Jamieson, take Mr. Baldwin up to the rear 
bedroom. I’ll drop in before you’ve gone to 
by-by. ” 

“ Decent of you, ” Baldwin muttered. “ Must 
say my nerves are twitchy.” 

He followed the man out. Wilmot closed 
the hall door after him, and strode to the 
entrance of the reception room. 

“This is quite unusual,” he said, opening 
the door. 



190 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

For a moment he thought his visitor had 
gone. Then at the point farthest removed 
from the one dim light he saw a dark figure 
stir, rise, and, with faltering steps, come 
toward him. He stepped aside, motioning the 
woman past; yet in the consultation room he 
could make little more of her, for the lines of 
her tall figure were blurred by a voluminous 
black wrap, and a heavy black veil obliterated 
her features. This she reinforced by sitting 
at a distance from the bright, green-shaded 
lamp on the table desk. 

The hour, her secretiveness, replaced the 
doctor’s irritation by a lively curiosity. He 
stared down at her, trying to penetrate the 
veil, but it was too heavy, or the light upon it 
too weak. 

“I should be glad if you would remove your 
veil,” he suggested. 

He fancied her shoulders shook. 

“Why?” she asked in a formless voice, 
scarcely more than a whisper. 

“The face,” he explained pleasantly, “tells 
a physician a great deal.” 

“I shan’t do it. I shan’t do it,” she said in 
her harsh, strained manner. 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 


DEFIANCE 


191 

“Then perhaps you’ll tell me how I can help 
you. My man said you were suffering.” 

The black veil shook as she nodded quickly. 

“I’ve had a nasty fall. I thought the pain 
would go away, but it got worse—until I 
couldn’t stand it. By that time I happened 
to be near by.” 

“Do you want me to believe,” he asked 
gently, “that you called here this time of night 
by chance?” 

“Of course I—I’ve heard a great deal of 
your skill,” she whispered. “Will you please 
see what you can do, tell me how seriously 
I’m hurt?” 

With a reluctant gesture she raised her left 
hand and slipped the cloak from her right 
shoulder, disclosing a simply made, expensive 
gray travelling gown. She indicated her right 
arm; apparently she couldn’t raise it. 

“Will you please be very careful?” 

For a moment, as he rolled back the sleeve, 
the doctor had to call on his will to make his 
fingers steady. The woman’s forearm was badly 
discoloured. Cartilage had been torn, but, 
since her arm had evidently given with the 
shock, the large bone was not broken. His 
voice when he spoke vibrated scarcely more 


i 9 2 the communicating door 

than hers. Here, possibly, was the one who 
had shot at Stacy Baldwin. Of course it 
would have been a woman- 

“How did you say this happened? When?” 

She answered slowly, as if struggling for 
words: 

“Half an hour or so ago. On the steps of 
the Elevated. I slipped. My arm came down 
under me. As I say, I didn’t look you up 
directly, because I hoped the pain would pass.” 

Her muted voice filled with appeal. 

“Doctor! Can you dress it so it won’t 
show?” 

Wilmot turned in order that she mightn’t 
see his excited face. That settled it. Her 
injury had to be hidden. The Baldwin house 
wasn’t far. Here, beyond a doubt, sat the 
woman who had tried to kill Stacy Baldwin. 

“Nothing broken,” he said. “Must have 
been a glancing blow. ” 

Perhaps in his eagerness he had pressed the 
injured arm too hard; or had it been his use of 
that incriminating word, for she gasped: 
“Blow!” and went limp and lifeless in the 
chair. 

Wilmot swung her in his arms and carried 
her to a sofa. During several moments he 


DEFIANCE 


193 

stared at her, undecided. There was less light 
here than at the chair she had occupied; the veil, 
consequently, was more protective, and it 
modelled her features only slightly. Once his 
hand went out to it, but he restrained himself. 
That was none of his business, but decidedly 
the identification of the woman who had tried 
to murder him was Stacy Baldwin’s affair; a 
right that no man could deny him without, 
possibly, conniving at his death; without attack¬ 
ing the very foundation of society. The doctor 
ran to the hall and called up the stairs. 

“Baldwin! I say, Baldwin! Come down 
quick—no matter how you’re dressed. ” 

Baldwin obeyed, struggling into one of the 
doctor’s dressing-gowns. 

“What’s the rumpus? Somebody been snip¬ 
ing at you, too?” 

Wilmot took his arm and led him toward— 
the consultation room. 

“Baldwin, in there is the woman who tried 
to cook your hash. ” 

Baldwin hesitated. 

“What’s the idea?” 

Then he must have seen the doctor’s un¬ 
compromising earnestness, for he went on, 
muttering under his breath: 


i 9 4 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“Had half an idea it might be a lady. What 
ho! The one that had to see you—suffering? 
I get you. Smashed arm?” 

They went through. With gleaming, revenge¬ 
ful eyes Baldwin studied the lifeless figure on 
the sofa, grinned at sight of the discoloured 
arm. 

“No question. I gave her that tidy bruise. 
Wears a pretty thick veil, too; and this light’s 
none too good.” 

His hand went out and hovered for a moment 
over the black covering. 

“You’re a good sort, Jimmy. Gives a fellow 
a chance to protect himself. ” 

“That’s why I called you, since you won’t 
make an arrest.” j 

“Not so sure now,” Baldwin muttered, still 
hesitant. “Lady’s identity might change my 
mind. Gives me the shivers, the thought of 
knowing what dame’s got so much against 
gentle little Stacy.” 

“Hurry!” Wilmot urged him. “She won’t 
stay under forever. ” 

Baldwin’s face tightened. Abruptlv he flung 
the veil aside. He drew back, his eyes wide, 
startled. The doctor gave a sharp cry, braced 
himself against the sofa. Both men stared 


DEFIANCE 


i 95 

agape at the white, lovely, and inanimate fea¬ 
tures of Anna Baldwin. 

The eyelids of Baldwin’s wife fluttered. She 
stirred, then resumed her cold impassivity. 
Wilmot raised his clenched hands and brought 
them down on the shoulders of the fascinated 
man. 

“This is madness, Stacy! There’s a ghastly 
mistake—a coincidence. ” 

No matter what Anna had done, he hated 
himself for having delivered her helpless into 
the hands of her vicious husband. To an 
extent Baldwin had got himself under control. 
A smile of growing satisfaction twitched at the 
corners of his mouth. 

“The gentle Anna! The saintly, too far 
better half! Admit, Jimmy, I haven’t given 
her too much cause to love me lately, but I 
never dreamed she had it in her. Pretty 
pussy Anna, turned cat with real claws, ugly 
claws-” 

The doctor halted the wondering voice. 

“Stop that! You’ve enough sense to know 
Anna never would have tried such a game. 
I tell you it’s pure coincidence. She fell on 
the Elevated stairs.” 


196 the communicating door 

Baldwin swung on him angrily. 

“ Never quite realized how soft you were 
on my wife, and I don’t like it. You get that? 
I won’t put up with it. Coincidence be hanged! 
You didn’t mention it when you called me, 
before you had seen her face. ‘In there,’ 
you said, ‘is the woman who tried to cook 
your hash.’ ” 

Wilmot had nothing in answer. The evi¬ 
dence was sufficiently clear, yet even now he 
couldn’t believe that Anna’s resentment against 
her faithless husband had culminated in such 
desperate violence. She stirred again. Bald¬ 
win was musing. 

“Might stand the scandal now. Public 
sympathy all mine! What, Jimmy?” 

“Don’t talk that way,” the doctor cried. 
“Be careful. What are you going to say to 
her? She’s coming out.” 

Baldwin, still smiling, carefully replaced the 
veil over his wife’s face. He tiptoed to the 
door. 

“I’ll say just nothing for the present. I 
fancy you’ve no great desire to tell her I’ve 
seen her. I mean, spare the dear creature’s 
feelings, and all that. I’m off to bed, and a 
good think. Be fair, Jimmy. There are lots 


DEFIANCE 


197 

of men not much better than I am, yet that 
woman’s goodness has irritated me to the 
limit; and you see what it really amounts to. 
Maybe I can protect myself in more than one 
way now. ” 

He slipped out. As in a dream the doctor 
went to his desk to prepare a restorative, but 
Anna’s voice, sufficiently recognizable in her 
semi-consciousness, called him back. 

“Did I hear you speaking? I must have 
fainted. I’m sorry.” 

Suddenly she struggled to a sitting posture. 
Her hand went frantically to her veil. 

“I must have been a little awkward,” he 
said under his breath. “I had no idea I was 
hurting you so much. I am going to try to 
make things better for you.” 

He bent and commenced to bandage her 
arm. After a time she spoke. 

“Why do your hands tremble?” 

He couldn’t answer. He saw her touch her 
veil once more. When she spoke again she 
made no effort to disguise her voice. It ex¬ 
pressed a weary surrender to the inevitable. 

“You’ve found out who I am. I wouldn’t 
have thought-” 

Vehemently he shook his head. 


i 9 8 the communicating door 

“An accident—when you fainted. Anna! 
Why didn’t you want me to know?” 

She threw back her veil, disclosing the suffer¬ 
ing of her white face. 

“We—we’ve been such good friends. I came to 
you because of that. I didn’t want to go to a 
stranger. You—you see I’m not supposed to be in 
town to-night. It—it would be humiliating ” 

His heart sank as she supported the evidence 
of his eyes. 

“Why should you come secretly, Anna?” 

“Because of Stacy,” she whispered. “You 
won’t tell any one you’ve seen me ? No matter 
what happens you’ll not say I was here? And 
is my arm going to show? Will it have to go 
in a splint?” 

He stood up, shaking his head. 

“It ought to,” he said harshly, “but since 
you wish—if you can put up with the pain it 
needn’t show.” 

She relaxed. 

“Thanks, Jimmy. You don’t know what 
that means to me. You are good. ” 

“Anna!” he burst out. “Where have you 
been to-night ? How were you hurt ? Why 
did you tell me that story about the Elevated ? 
You wouldn’t have been there.” 


DEFIANCE 


199 

She sprang up and faced him, panic-stricken, 
holding her injured hand against her side. 

“What are you talking about? Jim! Why 
do you look at me like that? What are you 
accusing me of?” 

“Answer me, Anna. Where have you been?” 

She ran with uneven steps away from him. 
In the shadowed reception room he stopped her 
flight that was more eloquent of guilt than any¬ 
thing she had done or said. No longer existed 
the gulf between them of loyalty and custom. 
Without revealing how much he knew, he had 
to impress upon her the extent of his love that 
would accept, no matter what she had done, 
any sacrifice in her defense. 

“Trust me, Anna—no matter what happens.” 

More frightened than before she tried to 
pull away from his grasp that tightened on 
her left hand. 

“I don’t have to tell you,” he blurted, “that 
I’ve never loved any one else-” 

“Hush, Jimmy!” 

“I’m not blind,” he rushed on. “You don’t 
fancy I’d say this if I knew you were happy 
with Stacy.” 

Through the dusk of the room he caught her 
wistful smile. 


200 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“You’re right. You didn’t have to tell me 
that you love me, dear old Jimmy. That’s 
why you must never speak of it again.” 

“But, Anna,” he pointed out, “one escape 
has offered itself all along. ” 

She shook her head. Her voice was de¬ 
termined, fierce. 

“I’d do anything rather than face that 
torture.” 

Discouraged, he let her go. She’d rather 
do anything! That, too, had its dreary signi¬ 
ficance; yet he wondered why she should prefer 
to the scandal of a justifiable divorce action 
the revolting publicity of a trial for the at¬ 
tempted murder of her husband. 

“You’ll promise, Jimmy,” she was begging 
with that haunted voice, that neurotic manner. 
“You’ll swear not to tell any one you’ve seen 
me, that I’ve even been in town to-night?” 

He promised. When she had slipped out he 
sank in a chair, crushed by the burden of his 
love which her unbelievable crime had only 
made immeasurably heavier. 

During the following days Wilmot scarcely 
found the courage for his initial glance at the 
morning and evening newspapers, for Baldwin 


DEFIANCE 


201 


had left his house without disclosing his plans; 
and, as if with evil purpose, he had increased 
the doctor’s suspense with self-satisfied and 
incomprehensible smiles. Nor did Wilmot see 
Baldwin or his wife again until the following 
week at Estelle Smith’s opening. He went to 
the theatre then only because he felt sure he 
would find Baldwin, sitting well down front, 
slipping back between the acts, smiling com¬ 
placently that the stunning Smith girl should 
receive more flowers than the star herself. 
It might be possible to have a word with him; 
tactfully to learn why he had not made a move; 
or even, with a bit of luck, if he would move 
at all.* 

Before he had been in the theatre ten minutes 
Wilmot with a sense of breathless shock re¬ 
ceived proof that Baldwin was, in fact, pro¬ 
gressing along some twisted line spun from the 
prolific revelation of the consultation room; for 
he stalked down the aisle, marshalling Mrs. 
and Mr. William Dungan, and—Anna. It was 
sufficiently obvious that Anna would have 
placed herself in the position of hostess to such 
a party only under some brutal compulsion; 
and Wilmot wondered if Baldwin had been 
vicious enough to tell her all he knew of that 


202 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


night; even to have his way through an un¬ 
bearable threat of arrest. 

Anna, in spite of her rare restraint, failed 
quite to hide the mortification of her surrender, 
for the Dungans’ ambition was common knowl¬ 
edge and convenient stimulant for the wits of 
the town. Everyone knew that Stacy Baldwin 
was trying to help them, probably at a stagger¬ 
ing price; but he had never before been able 
to offer value through his wife; had never 
forced her to appear in public beside Dungan’s 
shining bald head, his gross face, his over- 
corpulent figure. 

Mrs. Dungan, her clothing and jewellery too 
pronouncedly advertising their cost, glanced 
around the house with an expression impudent 
and avaricious. Wilmot had to admit she was 
handsome with her thick black hair, her snap¬ 
ping eyes, her naturally ruddy cheeks; but, he 
told himself, by contrast with Anna, her beauty 
was coarse and wholly of the flesh. She sug¬ 
gested, indeed, a colourful wild flower abruptly 
snatched up and set among the cultivated and 
delicate plants of a formal garden. 

As a matter of fact, something like that had 
really happened to her. Dungan had brought 
her from the southwest along with fantastic 


DEFIANCE 


203 

sums of money he had made through oil and 
a serviceable lack of conscience. She would 
never do here, Wilmot decided, yet he could 
approximate her exuberant content as the 
avowed guest of Stacy Baldwin’s wife. 

Wilmot was grateful when the curtain rose, 
but the appearance of the notorious Estelle 
Smith beyond the footlights only made Anna’s 
position more wretched. 

Wilmot sat back in his seat, watching the 
brilliant creature. He could appreciate that 
Baldwin’s friendship for her would give him a 
destination for a good deal more money than 
even Dungan was likely to line his pockets 
with; for she was an exigent and hot-tempered 
little wretch, one heard, who invariably got 
what she wanted. 

Baldwin slipped out as the curtain fell— 
almost certainly to seek by a circuitous route 
the dressing room of the popular Estelle. Wil- 
mot’s temper blazed at this new affront to 
Anna. Without forecasting the effect on the 
one he wished to help, he walked down the 
aisle, and sank in the seat Baldwin had left. 
Anna glanced at him quickly, and his sympathy 
grew, for now he saw that the artifices of the 
dressing table had failed to obliterate the record 


204 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

of the last few days’ mental and physical 
torture. He glanced at the carefully powdered 
arm. By gad! If he hadn’t known, Baldwin 
might not have noticed that. 

“I didn’t know you were here, Jimmy,” 
she said. “I don’t know whether to be glad.” 

Once Wilmot had had to accept an intro¬ 
duction to Dungan from Baldwin, so he wasn’t 
surprised to see the apoplectic man stretch his 
pudgy hand in front of his wife. 

“ ’Lo, Doctor. Met my wife ? This is Dr. 
James Wilmot, Florence.” 

The woman tossed her head as if she would 
have preferred the presentation to come from 
Mrs. Baldwin. She smiled, however, ingratiat¬ 
ingly. 

“I’ve heard a very great deal about you, 
Doctor. ” 

Wilmot with surprise found a quality in her 
voice that he liked—a strong, harsh tone that 
vibrated with the egotism bred by broad spaces 
and limited companionships. Then she sub¬ 
merged that vital note beneath an affected 
lisp. 

“Aw’fly nice show, don’t you think?” 

His momentary interest died. Such people 
would be bearable if only they remained them- 


DEFIANCE 


205 

selves instead of imitating the inanities of men 
like Stacy Baldwin. He made up his mind 
to escape those two, to give Anna a moment’s 
release and what strength he could. 

“There’s coffee below,” he suggested. 

And when they were caught in the crowd of 
the aisle he whispered in Anna’s ear: 

“Slip them in the foyer. I’ve got to talk to 
you.” 

“I—I don’t dare,” she whispered back. 
“What do you want to say?” 

“Everything,” he answered. “I’ve got to 
know. ” 

He managed it for her, and hurried her down 
the stairs and to a corner hidden from the 
serving table where people already clustered 
like voracious ants; to which the Dungans 
would almost certainly go first of all to find 
them. 

“Sit down. We’ve only a minute,” he said. 

Her lips trembled. The persistent colour of 
her cheeks made her face haggard. 

“You want to ask why I came with those 
people, with Stacy. ” 

“I want to know that,” he said determinedly. 

She looked down. She clasped her hands 
and commenced to twist her fingers. 


206 the communicating door 


“You couldn’t,” she whispered, “you couldn’t 
have told Stacy I was at your office that night ?” 

“Anna!” 

“I’m sorry, Jim. I—I don’t know what I’m 
saying. I’m about at the end of my rope. But 
that’s why I’m here, because I think he knows, 
and I can’t see how he found out. He brought 
the Dungans out over last week-end, and when 
I said I wouldn’t receive them he laughed and 
answered that I jolly well would, or I’d wish I’d 
never been born; and he wanted to know what 
was the matter with my arm; and said that he 
knew all I’d been up to. Jim! Jim! He fright¬ 
ened me. So I came to-night, too. ” 

“Why,” he asked gently, “should Stacy be 
able to threaten you because you went to a 
doctor to have a badly bruised arm dressed?” 

He was sorry he had had to ask it, and he 
shrank from her reply. 

She glanced restlessly around. 

“Because I—I couldn’t bear to have him 
know I had been in town-” 

“Anna,” he interrupted her. “Tell me the 
truth. Don’t you know what happened to 
Stacy at your house that night?” 

She shrank away from him. Her fingers re¬ 
commenced their twisting. 


DEFIANCE 


207 

“Were you at your house that night? An¬ 
swer me, Anna. I can’t help you unless you 
give me your confidence.” 

She spoke quickly, hysterically, although her 
voice remained low. 

“You’re accusing me, too, of some dreadful 
thing you won’t put into words. And I can’t 
guess what you know or think.” 

Wilmot couldn’t draw back now. 

“You know, don’t you, that Stacy was shot 
at that night from behind a curtain in your 
house? You know, don’t you, that he caught 
his assailant over the arm with his walking 
stick?” 

She cried out. She sprang to her feet and 
looked wildly about as if seeking a path of 
flight. Then Wilmot, watching her, saw her 
become motionless and little by little relax, 
while its normal impassivity returned to her 
face. He understood. Stacy Baldwin hurried 
stormily toward them. 

Wilmot arose and spoke easily. 

“Entre-acte about over?” 

“Not the point,” Baldwin said, making no 
effort to disguise his temper. “I want to know, 
Anna, why you left Bill and his missus flat.” 

“I lost them in the foyer,” she said. 


208 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


“Then get back to them. They’re waiting 
up there. A word with you, old Doc Sawbones. ” 

For Wilmot, her helpless obedience was suffi¬ 
cient answer. Why, indeed, he asked himself 
hotly, shouldn’t she be guilty? If ever an at¬ 
tempted crime was justifiable hers was. Bald¬ 
win tapped his arm. 

“Don’t fly away after the show, James, my 
boy.” 

“Why not?” Wilmot asked coolly. 

“Because,” Baldwin answered, “we’re going 
to have a little show-down. ” 

“About what?” 

“Show-down! No bluffing!” Baldwin 
sneered. “If you care as much for Anna as 
you pretend to you’ll be on hand. Back to 
my guests. Ta,ta.” 

Before Wilmot could say anything Baldwin 
had hurried up the stairs. The doctor followed 
and returned slowly to his seat. A show-down! 
In Baldwin’s mood that could mean only one 
thing. Before the only person who would have 
to admit the justice of his charge he would 
accuse his wife of having tried to put him out 
of the way. But with what purpose ? Money ? 
Anna, Wilmot guessed, as soon as she had 
learned the truth about her husband, had pro- 


DEFIANCE 


209 

tected her considerable fortune from his ex¬ 
travagances; but, as he suffered through the 
final act, the doctor feared a less comprehensible 
move, something more difficult to protect one¬ 
self against. 

In his anxiety he wanted to demand that the 
brazen Smith woman be snatched from the 
vision of the greedy-eyed men surrounding him; 
most of all from the sight of Stacy Baldwin who 
had been daring enough to drag his wife here 
to watch her antics. 

Afterward in the lobby he waited for the 
little party. Were the Dungans also to be 
witnesses of the show-down? Evidently not; 
for their own car came up, and Baldwin solici¬ 
tously helped Mrs. Dungan in, then whispered 
for a moment to Dungan, probably about some 
celebration that would almost certainly follow 
at Estelle Smith’s home. 

Anna stood close to Wilmot, failing to hide 
her dismay. Her glance, no longer controlled, 
restlessly swept the crowded sidewalk, as if 
more poignantly than before she recognized the 
paramount need of escape; and once she 
whispered: 

“Do you know what he’s going to do to 
me, Jim? Tell me—what’s going to happen?” 



2io THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


Wilmot shook his head. He found her hand 
and pressed it. 

The Dungans’ car moved away. Baldwin 
beckoned and motioned Anna into her auto¬ 
mobile which had drawn up. 

“You next, Doctor James,” he directed 
Wilmot. 

“Where are we going, Stacy? What is it?” 
Anna begged. 

“Didn’t you hear me say to drive home?” 
Baldwin muttered, nor would he speak again 
until they were in the hall of the house. 

There he indicated a small hole in the wain¬ 
scot. He smiled sardonically. 

“That point, my kind physician, is where 
the bullet entered after slipping thoughtfully 
by me. Don’t say, devoted wife, that you 
hadn’t noticed it.” 

Anna leant against the wall, her evening 
cloak fallen from her shoulders, her eyes wide 
and guilty. 

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she 
managed. 

“Then come on in and find out,” Baldwin 
said, and drew the curtain aside, and entered 
an inner room. 

As he followed, Wilmot tried not to believe 


DEFIANCE 


211 


that Baldwin had lashed himself to a revenge 
that would make the man that loved her the 
means of Anna’s destruction. 

“Sit down, both of you,” Baldwin ordered. 

Anna obeyed, because, the doctor saw, she 
was at the limit of her strength. He chose a 
chair near by, while Baldwin faced them from 
the fireplace, lighting a cigarette which he 
smoked with easy satisfaction. 

“Glad you showed up to-night, faithful 
cavalier,” Baldwin said. “Rather fancied you 
would, though I’d made up my mind, anyway. 
Safe to say you’ve loved Anna since long be¬ 
fore she took me for the better man. ” 

He grinned. 

“Funny that! Safe to say, too, that the 
more she’s seen of me, the more she’s thought 
of you. Too bad she didn’t find the difference 
out in time. She was too saintly for me. No 
use crying. What’s done’s done. Only thing 
left is to arrange matters so everybody’ll be 
happy. ” 

Anna looked up; dared to meet his eyes. 

“You mean a divorce, Stacy. I made up 
my mind long ago I wouldn’t ask for one. 
I don’t want to do that. I don’t believe in it.” 

Baldwin laughed. 


2i2 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“My dear! It’s no longer a question of 
what you believe in or want. Get this through 
your heads, you and Jim. It’s what I want; 
and you’ll have to admit I’m pretty easy¬ 
going.” 

Wilmot stood up, walked close to him, and 
looked at the flushed face. 

“Suppose you tell us what you’re driving at.” 

Baldwin laughed his impertinent laugh again. 

“I could do with a divorce. Now you’ve 
just heard. Anna refuses to get it, anyway. 
What’s the matter with me? Could do with 
whatever sympathy’s going around; and if 
there’s a settlement to ease outraged feelings! 
Even Jimmy’ll admit my feelings have been 
pretty badly shot up—eh? Fact is, I’m rather 
more penniless than you imagine, and you’ve 
a plenty, Anna. ” 

She stared at him, her mouth half open. 
Wilmot started to lift his hand then let it fall. 

“You don’t mean what you’re saying, Bald¬ 
win. You’ve drunk too much. You’ll change 
your mind in the morning. ” 

Baldwin shook his head slowly. 

“Not a chance, Jimmy. Better understand 
neither you nor Anna’s in a position to turn 
nasty. You’ll do what I suggest. And I 


DEFIANCE 


213 

might remind you, if you feel in the mood for 
a rough and tumble, the doughty Manuel’s 
within easy call. I’ll bring suit, and I’d advise 
you not to put up more than enough contest to 
make it look pure. That man of yours, who 
let Anna in your house after midnight, veiled 
like a houri. Properly coached, he’ll make a 
useful witness.” 

Anna straightened. She stretched out her 
hands. 

“Stacy! Who told you I was there?” 

“Now don’t get excited. I saw you.” 

He bared his teeth. 

“And I saw your arm!” 

She fell back in her chair. 

I “It isn’t true,” she said, covering her face. 

: “Jim! Tell me it isn’t true.” 

Wilmot looked down. 

“I’m sorry, Anna. It’s true.” 

“You may call it circumstantial evidence,” 
Baldwin said easily, “but I’ll lay you there 
isn’t a grand jury in the land wouldn’t indict 
on it. I fancy you’ll find this other action 
rather less painful. What?” 

Wilmot’s instinct was to spring at him, to 
choke him. But that would only make Anna’s 
situation worse. 



214 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“You won’t do it,” he cried. “Man! You 
can’t do such a thing. ” 

“Try me. Divorce and salve, or the lockup 
for Anna. What’s the rumpus, Doc? Don’t 
you want to marry her? Afraid she might pot 
at you? I say, Anna! Old Jimmy’s crawling 
away backward. Hello’ Seems to have the 
habit.” 

Wilmot turned and hurried to Anna’s side. 

“Bring her out of it,” Baldwin jeered. 
“I’m off to a cheerful party at Estelle’s. Be¬ 
lieve me, Doc, that lady can take care of her¬ 
self. She isn’t the fainting sort.” 

“Baldwin! Wait!” 

Baldwin snapped his fingers and went out. 

“No use wasting words,” he called back. 
“When I hold the winning hand I know how 
to play it safe for the last trick. ” 

Wilmot summoned Anna’s maid. He realized 
it would be better for her first consciousness 
not to focus on him; but before leaving he 
hurriedly scratched a note, begging her to do 
nothing until she had heard from him. He 
tried to distract her mind from the one tragic 
means of escape that must inevitably occur to 
her with promises that he would find a means 


DEFIANCE 


215 

of defense before Baldwin could do anything. 
He sealed the envelope, gave it to the maid, 
and went out. Yet, as he walked home, and 
afterward as he paced his consultation room, 
only one possible means of keeping Baldwin 
from fulfilling his threat occurred to him— 
to do successfully that at which Anna had 
failed. Heaven knew it would be self-defense, 
but of a sort the law couldn’t recognize. 

The sofa, where he had a fancy the impress 
of Anna’s form lingered, accused him mutely. 
He had brought Baldwin down to lift the veil. 
He had delivered Anna helpless into his hands. 
Somehow he must set her free, but there was 
no way—no way except to close Baldwin’s 
lips forever. He stood at the foot of the sofa, 
staring hypnotically at the place where Anna 
had rested. No man, he believed, had ever 
faced so abominable a temptation. 

He relaxed. The telephone sounder was 
buzzing. 

He walked to the desk and lifted the receiver 
from the hook. 

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. 

He bent forward and braced himself against 
the desk, his eyes wide, his face suffused. A 
woman’s strangled voice had reached him, 


216 the communicating door 

scarcely intelligible, as if her mouth had not 
been near the transmitter; but he had under¬ 
stood these words: 

“ Better come. Stacy Baldwin is—is in 
dreadful trouble here.” 

“Where?” he cried. “Where?” 

As faint as the whispering of a breeze among 
distant trees slipped the answer. 

“At Estelle Smith’s. Quick! You’d better 
come quick!” 

“Who are you?” he shouted. 

He rattled the hook, but the woman had 
gone. He remembered Anna’s whispering voice 
when she had come to this room the other 
night. Was it Anna who had called him? 
Who else, indeed, would have? She, too, must 
have realized that the only way out was the 
closing of her husband’s mouth. If she had 
had the courage to attack him the other eve¬ 
ning, how much more powerful was her motive 
to-night! 

He shivered as if the room had all at once 
been invaded by a charnel cold. It was im¬ 
possible to picture Anna doing such things. 
He dwelt on what Baldwin had said of a party 
at Estelle Smith’s. He tried to sketch that 
party as he would have had it: a big crowd; 


DEFIANCE 


217 

noisy, scarcely accountable men and women; 
a quarrel. He couldn’t go on. He looked at 
his watch. He had struggled with the dilemma 
longer than he had thought. It was nearly 
three o’clock. 

In the street he found a late taxicab, gave 
the driver the address of Estelle Smith’s apart¬ 
ment uptown near the river, urged him to 
hurry through the nearly empty streets, and 
at last was taken by a somnolent elevator boy 
to the corridor from which the woman’s apart¬ 
ment opened. 

Wilmot rang. After a time he glanced at 
the door, surprised, his suspense increasing; 
for from the apartment had come to him no 
stirring, no suggestion of a large party, no 
sign of life. He rang again. Had Baldwin 
been in less trouble than the unknown woman 
had fancied? Had he, perhaps, been able to 
leave? Had the party, because of whatever 
had happened, dispersed early? Even so, the 
Smith girl and her maid would have remained. 

The brooding silence stung him to action. 
He reached out and rattled the door knob, 
and the door swung open. Then the latch 
had not been fastened. The hall was dark 
except for a blazing light that made a band 


2i8 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


across the floor from a door opposite. Cer¬ 
tainly that brilliant room suggested occupancy. 
He rapped against the wall. Still no response 
arose from the strangely silent apartment. 

“Hello, in there!” he called. 

As if physically pushing the silence aside, 
Wilmot crept forward to the lighted doorway. 

Caught in the blaze the doctor stopped short, 
reached out, and steadied himself against the 
door jamb. For a moment the air was too 
heavy for his lungs; for he knew that Stacy 
Baldwin’s luck had failed at last. Anna’s 
husband lay beneath the glare of the ceiling 
lamps in the centre of the gaudily decorated 
room, his arms outstretched, his shirt front 
grotesquely stained. 

Wilmot tiptoed across and knelt. After a 
second he drew back. Baldwin had been shot 
through the heart, but he had not been long 
dead. That hysterical summons must have 
come within a few minutes of the crack of the 
revolver that had done for him. 

Crouched on his heels the doctor glanced 
around. Baldwin had lied. There had been 
no cheerful party at Estelle Smith’s that night. 
Except for this tragic discord the room was 
orderly; chairs were in their normal places, and 


DEFIANCE 


219 

evidently there had been no struggle. She 
must have taken him by surprise. She had 
fired. That was all. 

The undisturbed dining room offered him 
further proof that Baldwin had had a rendez¬ 
vous alone with Estelle Smith. But where was 
Estelle Smith or her maid? He explored the 
pantry and the kitchen. Everything was empty, 
dark. He came back to the brilliant room and 
leant against a chair back, his nails pressed 
against his palms. Anna must have heard 
Baldwin say he was coming here, had followed. 
But where was Estelle Smith? She must have 
received her guest. She must have heard the 
shot, must have seen the one who had fired. 
He straightened. Somehow he must find Estelle 
Smith, and keep her from taking the stand to 
point out Anna Baldwin as the murderess of 
her husband. 

With the motions of a somnambulist he com¬ 
menced his search. Two closed doors led to 
rooms on either side of the dining room. One 
of them must be Estelle’s. He chose the door 
to the right, turned the knob, and entered. 

Lights burned here, too, flashing on a frantic 
disorder. Clothing was strewn on the bed and 
chairs, overflowed to the floor. Bureau drawers 


220 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


stood open. The dressing table was in dis¬ 
array. It was clear enough a bag or two had 
been packed. Estelle Smith, and probably her 
maid, had fled. 

The doctor for the first time since entering 
the noiseless dwelling had a flash of hope. 
The logic of Anna’s guilt had smothered his 
reason. Suppose retribution had been snatched 
from her hand? In view of the disordered 
room, of this incontinent flight, wasn’t it also 
logic that Estelle Smith had murdered Stacy 
Baldwin ? 

With that clearing of his mind there came to 
him, too, the compromising nature of his own 
position alone in the apartment with the dead 
man. He shrugged his shoulders. He’d be 
glad enough to pay the price for Anna if only 
she would let him. 

Abruptly he stiffened. What was that ? 

He listened, tensely. There was more than 
death in the other room. No one had answered 
his ring or his call, yet something stirred stealth¬ 
ily in there. His heart seemed to stop. Could 
he have been mistaken about Baldwin? He 
sprang for the door. There was only Baldwin in 
the garish room, lying as the doctor had first seen 
him, still threatening in death, still malevolent. 


DEFIANCE 


221 


He started. A sob had reached him, diffi¬ 
cult, strangled. He saw the hangings at the 
hall door sway. 

“Who’s there?” 

There was no answer, so he ran across, 
paused in the doorway, and drew slowly back, 
his momentary hope abruptly strangled. 

A woman, one hand clutching at the hangings, 
crouched against the wall just beyond the band 
of light; and he saw with a sinking heart that 
she wore a long black cloak, and that her face 
was covered by a heavy black veil. She must 
have been hidden in the other bedroom, must 
have been attempting to slip out. Wilmot held 
out his hands to her. 

“Anna! It’s all up now.” 

She seemed endeavouring to get away from 
him, but the wall held her. Again he heard 
her choked sobbing, and he took her in his 
arms, but she resisted. 

“I’ll stand by you, Anna,” he cried. 

Slowly she raised her hand to her veil and 
drew it away. 

Wilmot fell back. He couldn’t bear the 
suffering he saw in the white face. 

“Oh, my God, Jimmy,” she whispered. “It 
—it’s happened.” 


222 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


He took her hand and led her into the brilliant 
room. 

“Come,” he said. “We must make up our 
minds what to do.” 

She shrank against him. 

“I—I can’t stay here-” 

“Hush,” Wilmot whispered. “Don’t say 
anything now-” 

She followed his fascinated glance to the door 
opposite Estelle Smith’s bedroom. Slowly the 
door swung open, as though of its own volition. 
At last it was wide, and a woman stepped from 
behind it and across the threshold. He stared 
unbelieving at the coarse and audacious beauty 
of Mrs. William Dungan. 

“What are you doing here?” he gasped. 

“Trying to do my duty,” she answered in 
her loud, self-reliant voice, “although I’ve 
been on the point of dodging it more than once. 
I’d intended getting the police as soon as I’d 
’phoned you and Mrs. Baldwin to come, but 
I lost my nerve, and decided to wait until you got 
here. Then I lost my nerve again; but there’s 
only one thing to be done—own up to the truth. ” 

Wilmot clutched Anna’s hand. For the other 
woman’s sake he tried to keep his joyous relief 
from his voice. 


DEFIANCE 


223 

“But why, Mrs. Dungan, why did you do 
it?” 

Her eyes flashed at him their bewilderment. 

“I?—I? Would I soil my hands with such 
dirt?” 

She looked down. 

“It was Bill, the utter fool—head over heels 
with that painted-face dancer, and so jealous 
of Baldwin he couldn’t think straight; and he 
had more reason than that. Baldwin’s been 
taking his money and double-crossing him, not 
putting him up at clubs or getting him asked 
places—things Bill had paid for. Baldwin lied 
to him to-night, tried to steer him away from 
here; and Bill telephoned Mrs. Baldwin to 
check up on him. You remember, Mrs. Bald¬ 
win; and you told Bill your husband had come 
here. Bill went raving, and I was afraid there 
would be trouble, so I followed him quietly. 
The door was unlatched. I saw the whole 
thing from behind those curtains. There were 
some hot words, Baldwin struck, and—and 
Bill shot him like a dog. ” 

She clenched her hands. The determination 
of her features increased. 

“Then—then, while I stayed hidden, and 
tried to think out what to do, I had to watch 


224 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

him cut and run with that woman. She didn’t 
have to think much. A live millionaire was a 
lot more use to her than a dead swell. ” 

She stiffened. 

“I’d rather see him in jail for life than in her 
hands.” 

“Thanks, Mrs. Dungan,” Wilmot said. “I’m 
sorry for you. It makes a clear case, but your 
husband may plead self-defense.” 

He turned to Anna. 

“But the other night?” 

She nodded quickly. 

“It must have been Dungan,” she whispered. 

“Then you were there,” he said. “What were 
you doing that night secretly in your house?” 

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

“I’d slipped quietly into town to make an¬ 
other effort with Stacy. I couldn’t stand it 
any longer. I dressed as I did because I 
didn’t want people to see me going to my 
husband on my knees. I waited so long for 
him. I fell asleep in the dark drawing room. 
Stacy’s key in the lock must have waked me 
up, and I saw in the light from the street this— 
this man behind the curtains, raising a revolver. 
I had enough sense not to scream, for that 
would have made him shoot then. I crept be- 


DEFIANCE 


225 

hind, thrust my arm through the curtains, and 
grasped his hand as he fired—and Stacy’s cane 
struck my arm.” 

Her lips trembled. 

“I ran after the man to the servants’ entrance, 
but he was too quick for me, and I was about 
to go back when I heard Stacy searching, and 
all at once I realized.” 

She shivered. 

“I knew Stacy mustn’t find out about my 
arm. Jim! Don’t you see? My only chance 
was that Stacy should never know I had been 
at the house, in town that night. I was frantic, 
and walked the streets while the pain got worse, 
but I kept telling myself Stacy must never 
know my arm had been struck. And after 
that night he began to threaten, and I couldn’t 
guess how much he knew; and I had only tried 
to save him.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Anna?” he asked 
gently. 

She shook her head. She indicated her in¬ 
jured arm. 

“No matter how much you had wanted to, 
you wouldn’t have believed me, Jim. Stacy 
was right. No man had been seen, except by 
me. Any jury would have convicted me.” 


226 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


Mrs. Dungan touched Wilmot’s arm. She 
spoke in a hard, dry voice, but he saw there 
were tears in her eyes. 

“Take her away from here before the police 
come. Give her all the happiness she’s earned. ” 
She hid her face in her hands. Wilmot led 
Anna slowly out of the place where Stacy 
Baldwin lay, a curiously boyish figure, from 
which all evil had been torn. 


VI 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


T HE telephone in the doctor’s office next 
door had jangled determinedly until Hud¬ 
son thought its ultimate effect would 
be very like that of the storied Chinese torture— 
the water that drips on some part of the body 
with deadly regularity, until its victim goes 
insane. The racket had already driven him 
from his writing. And he was paying an ex¬ 
orbitant rent for this tiny room on the top floor 
of a small upper Fifth Avenue office building 
simply that he might have the quiet necessary 
for his work. This, moreover, was the second 
time within a week the thing had happened. 
Before, he had complained to the doctor at his 
first opportunity with such unmeasured vehe¬ 
mence the janitor had inserted himself into the 
conversation as a peacemaker. The doctor’s 
defense had been the lateness of the hour. He 
couldn’t prevent hysterical patients calling up 
when the building would normally be deserted. 

227 


228 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


This time there was no excuse. It was barely 
three o’clock and the torture had been applied 
for twenty insufferable minutes. 

Hudson determined to take matters into his 
own hands. He snapped his watch shut and 
pushed back his chair. He glared viciously at 
the communicating door between his room and 
the doctor’s. Then he strode to the hall and 
rang the bell of the one elevator. 

The janitor happened to be on the car with 
the elevator boy. 

“Listen, Robert,” Hudson said, “I’m neither 
Job nor a deaf-mute. Go in and take the receiver 
off the hook. Where the devil are they all?” 

The janitor stepped out, rattling his keys. 

“He doesn’t have many appointments Satur¬ 
day afternoon. He let Miss Moran off yester¬ 
day for over Sunday, and his assistant went out 
to lunch before he did and hasn’t come back 
yet. That’s queer, too. Doctor Seely came 
in half an hour ago.” 

“He must take something if he can nap 
through that hubbub,” Hudson snorted. 

“I know he hasn’t gone out since,” the janitor 
said, “because I’ve been on the car the last 
two hours while Willy here went downtown 
on an errand for the boss. ” 


OPEN EVIDENCE 229 

Hudson pointed to the stairs which descended 
just outside the doctor’s door. 

“If he had walked down,” the janitor con¬ 
ceded, “and the car hadn’t been on the ground 
floor I wouldn’t have seen him; but what’s 
the elevator for?” 

He shook his head. He stooped over, in¬ 
serted a key in the lock, and gave the door a 
shove. It failed to open. He straightened, 
staring at Hudson. 

“I knew he was here. Bolt’s shot on the 
inside.” 

Hudson glanced from the doctor’s' door to 
his own. They were the only two at that end 
of the hall. 

“Isn’t there another way out?” he asked, 
nevertheless. 

“Except through your office, but those com¬ 
municating doors are kept locked.” 

He stooped again, pushed back the flap of 
the mail slot, and peered through. He made 
a frightened noise in his throat. Suddenly he 
sprang upright, shattered the glass panel with 
his foot, reached in, turned the knob, and 
stumbled across the threshold. Hudson fol¬ 
lowed him. It was clear enough why Doctor 
Seely hadn’t answered his telephone. 


2 3 o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

The apartment was designed for the recep¬ 
tion of patients. Laden bookshelves ran around 
all four walls save where one door led to the 
private office and the other communicated 
with Hudson’s room. A large mahogany table, 
covered with neatly arranged piles of maga¬ 
zines, stood in the centre of the floor. Half 
under this table Doctor Seely lay, stretched un¬ 
mistakably in death. 

Hudson expressed his first coherent thought. 

“There’s no blood.” 

“Poisoned himself,” the janitor whispered. 
“I’ll ’phone for the police.” 

That reminded Hudson. The bell still rang 
monotonously. 

“Wait a minute,” he said, and lifted the 
receiver to his ear. “Hello!” 

A woman’s voice vibrated nervously over 
the wire. 

“Thought you would never answer. Well? 
Don’t be afraid. You’ve found him?” 

“Good God, yes!” Hudson answered 
hoarsely. 

“Oh, he did get me into a lot of trouble,” 
the voice came back. 

Hudson’s saner judgment snapped. He fairly 
shouted into the transmitter: 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


231 


“Who are you? Where can I find you?” 

The wire went dead. He hung up the re¬ 
ceiver and stared at the janitor. 

“A woman did it. She was on that wire.” 

But the janitor used his logic. “If it wasn’t 
suicide the murderer’s got to be in this office 
now. ” 

He walked to the door of the consultation 
room and flung it open. There was no one 
there. 

Hudson knelt over the body. 

“Look!” he called after a moment. 

He pointed at the back of the victim’s neck. 
A tiny round hole gaped between the base of 
the brain and the spinal column. He stooped 
lower. 

“Do you want to see what did it?” 

He touched a gleaming slender thread of steel 
half hidden by the body. 

“A knitting needle!” the janitor cried. 

“No. A lancet. Who but a woman-If it 

had been suicide, Robert, he wouldn’t have 
had time to draw the deadly thing out.” 

The janitor shrugged his shoulders. “Mr. 
Hudson, it’s a sheer drop of five stories to a 
stone pavement from the windows. You saw 
yourself that the entrance was bolted on the 


232 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

inside. That leaves the locked door to your 
room. ” 

He stepped across the rug, and, to prove his 
point, turned the knob. The door answered to 
his touch and swung open. 

“Good Lord, Mr. Hudson! How long have 
you been in there?” 

Hudson arose. 

“Two hours at least. That won’t do, either, 
Robert.” 

“It’s the only way, Mr. Hudson. You must 
have seen him or her go through, or-” 

Hudson’s nerves grew taut as he recognized 
the frank suspicion in the janitor’s eyes. He 
guessed that the man was recalling his quarrel 
with the doctor, and would tell everything. 
The police, in their usual anxiety to make an 
immediate arrest, might cause him endless 
trouble, even danger, unless he could trace this 
woman, who, escaping mysteriously from the 
scene of her crime, had given the alarm in so 
unique a fashion. 

“You don’t think, Robert-” His voice 

trembled a little. “Why, that woman on the 
’phone! And would I have come to you and 
insisted on breaking in here?” 

“I’m not accusing you,” the janitor answered, 


OPEN EVIDENCE 233 

“but the police’ll say that was a nervy stunt to 
throw them off the track; and I can’t testify 
to any woman on the ’phone because I didn’t 
hear one. If I was you, Mr. Hudson, I’d let 
somebody else pick holes in the suicide theory. 
I’ll tell you something, too, though maybe I 
shouldn’t. Doctor Seely asked me to keep my 
mouth shut, but it might help. One of his 
patients lost a valuable string of pearls day 
before yesterday. A detective was in here 
pumping me before I locked up last night. 
Maybe the doctor knew too much about it to 
want to face the music. ” » 

“The police won’t see it any more than I 
will,” Hudson said. “You’ll have to tell them 
all you know, so I’m going to try to find that 
woman now, while the trail is warm. There 
won’t be any trouble getting me if I’m wanted.” 

The janitor was in a quandary. “That ain’t 
just fair to me, Mr. Hudson.” 

Hudson snapped at him angrily. “If you’re 
like most janitors you know too much about 
bolts and locks to be above suspicion yourself. 
I want a couple hours. ” 

The elevator door slammed. Hudson heard 
a quick step in the hall and a cheery whistling. 
Doctor Seely’s assistant, a neat, good-looking 


234 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

young man, appeared in the doorway. He 
stopped, turned white, and leaned weakly 
against the wall. 

“What’s this?” He gaped for a moment. 
“Why don’t you do something?” He sprang 
forward and knelt. 

“Don’t touch the body,” the janitor warned. 

Hudson was sorry for the boy; his grief was 
pitiful. 

“He was like a father to me,” the assistant 
sobbed, after he had had time to realize and to 
recover a little. “He saw me through medical 
school. He took me in here-” 

He sprang up. 

“Do you know who-” 

Hudson shook his head. 

“I’ll spend every cent I’ve got to run down 
the beast who did it,” the assistant cried. 

“Good,” Hudson said. “Then you don’t 
think the wound was self-inflicted?” 

“Suicide! Why should he want to kill him¬ 
self?” 

“Pull yourself together,” Hudson urged. 
“Can you think of any one likely-” 

“No, no.” 

“His patients were mostly women?” Hudson 
suggested. 



OPEN EVIDENCE 


235 

“Yes—nervous women. One—temporarily 

insane—might have-Oh, why did I stay out 

so long?” 

“Or an angry woman?” 

“He was straight as a die,” the assistant 
flashed back. 

“Physicians are easily misunderstood,” Hud¬ 
son persisted. “Think now. Isn’t there some¬ 
one?” 

The assistant’s eyes narrowed. “A man was 
in here this noon. He seemed angry. That 
was when Doctor Seely told me to go out to 
luncheon and not to hurry back.” 

“A man! Who was he?” Hudson asked. 

“A Mr. Arnhem—the husband of one of 
Doctor Seely’s oldest patients.” 

“Did any one go out or come back with 
Doctor Seely, Robert?” 

“No,” the janitor answered. “I’m sure he 
came and went alone. ” 

“Everywhere a blank wall,” Hudson said. 
“You’d better call the police.” 

He went into his own room and got his coat 
and hat. As he stepped to the hall again he 
heard the assistant’s excited voice. 

“What’s this door doing open? By gad! 
That was the way out!” 



236 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Hudson didn’t dare stop to argue. The 
assistant, remembering his quarrel with the 
doctor, would doubtless add two and two with 
the same convincing ease and error as the 
janitor. So he ran down the five flights of 
stairs and stepped on the sidewalk. 

He had said he wanted two hours. He knew 
the police might be after him in fifteen minutes. 
And he had no pronounced ability for this 
obscure business. There wasn’t time to go to 
any of the large detective agencies, but on his 
daily walks from the Sixth Avenue Elevated 
he had frequently noticed the sign of one of the 
smaller sort. He hurried around the corner 
now, his mind made up to get here the help he 
needed; yet when he stopped in front of the 
place and examined it closely for the first time 
he was filled with doubt and distaste. 

“Parsons—Special Agent—Discretion Guar¬ 
anteed.” 

The sign hung above the sidewalk, but an 
arrow in a lower corner pointed downward to 
an unswept areaway and two windows whose 
original purpose was almost lost in dust and 
grime. Still time pressed, and any aid would 
be better than none. So he descended the 
steps and pulled at the bell handle. A slovenly 


OPEN EVIDENCE 237 

maid answered and indicated the detective’s 
door. Hudson knocked. 

A round and cheerful voice called out to 
enter. Hudson wondered at it as he obeyed 
and faced the extreme poverty of the interior. 
A table desk, two cane-seated chairs, and a piece 
of sectional bookcase completed the furniture. 
The floor was uncarpeted, the walls bare. A coal 
fire glowing in a low grate made the one bright 
spot. But Parsons, even more than his voice, 
was at variance with his surroundings. Hudson 
could see that he was darkly good-looking and 
young—probably about thirty. He wore a 
check suit, fashionably made and set off by a 
maroon necktie. A gray felt hat, a cane with 
silver trimmings, and a pair of fresh gloves lay 
on the desk near a telephone. Met on the street, 
the man might have been set down as a dandy, 
a jewellery salesman, a wine-agent—anything but 
a detective. Taken in connection with his office, 
he became an anomaly. Hudson, pausing on the 
threshold, realized it with a sinking heart. 

“If there were not another chair I would 
offer you mine,” Parsons said softly. “Don’t 
let appearances discourage you unless you 
bring another divorce scandal. I shall change 
that sign as soon as I can afford it.” 


23 8 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Suddenly he sprang to his feet. “Come in, 
man! Come in! You’re in a mess! What?” 

Hudson nodded mechanically and closed the 
door. 

“I want to use your telephone.” 

Parsons sat down and pushed the instrument 
across the desk. 

Hudson chanced to know the superintendent 
of the telephone company for that district. 
He hoped to trace the persistent call through 
him, and the woman through the call. When 
he had asked for his information he hung up 
the receiver and sat down. He looked at 
Parsons for some moments, almost unwilling 
to begin. But as he gazed Parsons’ swarthy 
face seemed to alter. The eyes narrowed. 
New lines appeared in his forehead and about 
the mouth. His voice when he spoke was level 
and business-like. 

“Nothing but lack of time would have 
brought you to me, so I wouldn’t wait any 
longer. Tell me everything without reserve 
as clearly and as quickly as you can.” 

Hudson gave Parsons his story just as it 
had happened, from his quarrel with the doctor 
to his arrival here. Parsons interrupted only 
once. 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


239 

“Are you sure that’s all the janitor said 
about the pearls?” 

“Everything,” Hudson answered. “Do you 
attach importance to them?” 

“I happen to know of their loss,” Parsons 
said, “as, naturally, I do about most things 
that are reported to the Central Office. There 
are one or two puzzles connected with those 
pearls. Still—go on. ” 

Hudson took up the thread. As he was 
finishing, the telephone bell rang. Although 
he expected to be told the woman had called 
from some public place, he ran eagerly to the 
instrument. The superintendent said the call 
had apparently come from the house of J. A. 
Arnhem, a banker, living in Sixty-fifth Street, 
near Fifth Avenue. 

Hudson swung around triumphantly. 

“Arnhem! The man who went to Seely, 
angry, this noon. The woman’s probably his 
wife. Let’s get after her.” 

“Wait. Wait,” Parsons said patiently. “Sit 
down, Mr. Hudson, and give me half a minute 
to digest your story. These cases must be 
solved largely by logic and checked up after¬ 
ward. Our interview with this woman is the 
most vital check I foresee at present. In the 


2 4 o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

first place, it was she who lost the pearls. Her 
husband, I learn from my source of information 
in the Central Office, reported the matter to 
the police night before last. Last night he 
unaccountably called the police off. Something 
to think about there, eh? In the second place, 
you suspect her of the murder. It is not in¬ 
possible she should have left the doctor’s office 
unseen by you. When I am told there is no 
apparent escape for a criminal from the scene 
of his lawlessness, I take it for granted there 
are several perfectly obvious ones. At least 
I shall go on that assumption until I have seen 
the place. What she said over the ’phone at 
first thought seems to support your theory. 
But several serious difficulties arise. You tell 
me the doctor, when you found him, had been 
in his room half an hour, and the telephone had 
been ringing twenty minutes. Those estimates 
may vary, but probably only a trifle. There¬ 
fore Mrs. Arnhem would have had to commit 
the crime, reach her house in Sixty-fifth Street, 
and rush to the telephone within approximately 
ten minutes. I grant you it’s possible if she 
had used a fast automobile. But why, in 
Heaven’s name, this violent haste to incriminate 
herself by giving the alarm—and from her own 



OPEN EVIDENCE 


241 

house? Let’s glance at the janitor. You say 
the police did question him about the pearls. 
But I can’t go any further with that until I 
have examined the door he told you was bolted 
on the inside. Nor must we altogether neglect 
the theory of suicide.” 

“But,” Hudson objected, “the lancet was 
not in the wound. His death would have been 
practically instantaneous.” 

“The lancet might have dropped out when 
he fell,” Parsons said. 

“By Jove, you’re right.” 

“An awkward wound, though, since he wasn’t 
a surgeon,” Parsons went on. “A doctor 
would almost instinctively turn to poison. 
Still, that proves nothing.” 

He smiled blandly at Hudson. 

“Then, from a purely objective point of 
view—and as the police will say—there is 
always yourself.” 

Hudson whitened. He stood up and pushed 
back his chair. “That’s why I came to you. 
If you-” 

“Your own heart knows best,” Parsons in¬ 
terrupted. “You will be satisfied if I verify 
what is in your heart?” 

“Yes, yes. You’re forgetting the husband.” 


242 


THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


“No, Fm not.” 

The detective lay back and closed his eyes. 

“There are so many motives where doctors 
are concerned, and here we have pearls be¬ 
sides—powerful motives to fit everyone we can 
suspect. Love. Hatred. Jealousy. Avarice. 
Fear.” 

The lines in Parsons’ forehead deepened. 
Hudson grew restless and walked to the window. 
When he turned, Parsons had the telephone in 
his hand. 

“I’ll get a taxi,” he said. “We’d better see 
that woman now.” 

They put on their coats and hats and waited 
at the area door. 

“There’s certain to be a Central Office man 
hanging around this corner since it’s the least 
likely place to find you,” Parsons said. “I’ll 
step out first. When I wave my hand you 
may come.” 

Hudson reached the cab safely, but as they 
swung into Fifth Avenue, Parsons gaily pointed 
out a square-cut individual lounging in the 
doorway of the building where Seely lay dead. 
Hudson shivered. 

“You—you have formed some theory that 
may get me out of this?” 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


243 

“ Nothing to talk about or raise false hopes on 
yet,” Parsons answered. 

“You don’t seem to realize what this means 
to me,” Hudson prodded him. 

“Possibly an unpleasant death,” Parsons 
replied. “But for me it means success or 
failure—really more vital matters. Don’t worry, 
Mr. Hudson, I’ll attend to your business with 
all my heart.” 

The Arnhem residence was an imposing 
gray stone, English basement affair—the usual 
New York symbol of considerable wealth. 
Parsons instructed the driver to wait for them, 
stepped into the vestibule, and rang the bell. 
A supercilious man in livery opened. 

“Mrs. Arnhem is not at home,” he an¬ 
nounced as Parsons handed him his card. 

If Parsons had not put his foot in the aper¬ 
ture the door would have closed in their faces. 
He tapped the card. 

“Take your foot out, sir.” 

But Parsons continued to tap the card. 

“Give this to Mrs. Arnhem. She’ll be at 
home to me.” 

“Better present it at the tradesman’s en¬ 
trance,” the servant said. “Take your foot 
out, or-” 


244 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“Mr. Hudson,” Parsons directed, “there is 
a fixed post around the corner. Ask the police¬ 
man to come back with you. ” 

He faced the man again. 

“If you think your mistress wishes a uni¬ 
formed policeman in the house you were never 
more mistaken in your life. ” 

The door opened wide. 

“I don’t think Mrs. Arnhem’s at home, but, 
if it’s as important as that, I’ll take your card 
and see.” 

“Could you have really used the police to 
get in?” Hudson asked when they were alone 
in the darkened reception room. 

“One is always put to expedients,” Parsons 
answered, “and this happened to work. Be¬ 
cause of it she’ll be all the surer to see 
us. Curious! She raised what barricades she 
could.” 

Mrs. Arnhem, indeed, did appear within five 
minutes. Even in the half light her fear and 
nervousness were confessed by dishevelled hair; 
by the pallor of her rather handsome face; by 
the graceful body, slightly stooping now and 
not altogether steady. 

Hudson gazed at her eagerly, then glanced at 
Parsons. The detective had fixed the woman 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


245 

with a steady stare. She clutched at the 
curtain which had fallen behind her. 

“This intrusion/' she said with some diffi¬ 
culty. “To what am I-What is the reason ?” 

Her voice died away impotently. Hudson 
could have sworn it was the voice he had heard 
over the telephone in Doctor Seely’s office. 

Parsons didn’t answer. His stare apparently 
added to her nervousness. She put her hand 
to her hair with a jerky motion. She advanced 
a few steps. 

“The police—Thompson says you threatened 
to call the police unless I saw you. Why ? Why ? 
What can you want of me ? I—I know nothing. ” 

Parsons sighed. 

“You seem to know about the murder. 
Your knowledge has been very rapidly ac¬ 
quired, Mrs. Arnhem. It isn’t even in the 
papers yet.” 

Evidently she realized her mistake. She con¬ 
sidered for some moments while she pulled at 
her handkerchief. 

“I—I do know about Doctor Seely. I tele¬ 
phoned his office a little while ago. They told 
me.” 

“You mean, then, you’ve telephoned twice,” 
Parsons said. 


246 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“What do you want? I won’t put up with 
this,” she cried shrilly. “You have forced an 
entrance into my house. I tell you I know 
nothing—nothing—nothing! ” 

“You are curiously excited for one who knows 
nothing at all,” he drawled. 

She held herself momentarily in check. 

“Doctor Seely was an old friend. The shock 
was great. I can say nothing more. I want 
you to go. ” 

Parsons answered slowly: 

“Before we obey it is only fair to tell you 
when you first ’phoned Doctor Seely’s office 
Mr. Hudson was on the other end of the wire. 
The police may act on the most obvious con¬ 
struction of what you said. ” 

“Are you accusing me? What authority 
have you?” 

“Mr. Hudson has retained me to sift the 
facts. If you have nothing to conceal why 
not answer my questions?” 

“But I tell you I know nothing,” she re¬ 
peated hysterically. 

“Don’t you know where your husband is?” 
he demanded suddenly. 

Her laugh was an inadequate mask for the 
terror his question had aroused. 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


247 


“He isn’t even in town.” 

“When did he leave? That’s easily de¬ 
termined.” 

“I—I don’t know. He took his bag down¬ 
town after breakfast. He said he was going 
to Chicago. I suppose he got a morning train.” 

“He didn’t, Mrs. Arnhem. We know that 
he went to Doctor Seely’s office this noon. 
He was angry. ” 

She clutched at a chair back. 

“I don’t believe it. You can’t fasten it on 
him.” 

“Wait a moment, Mrs. Arnhem. I am ac¬ 
cusing no one. My business is to find out who 
did not do this murder. Tell me why your 
husband should have been angry with Doctor 
Seely.” 

“I won’t. I—I can’t.” 

Parsons shrugged his shoulders. “Your hus¬ 
band and you did not part good friends this 
morning?” 

“I won’t answer such questions. They are 
impertinent.” 

“Then please answer this: have you re¬ 
covered your pearl necklace?” 

Mrs. Arnhem stiffened. 

“How do you know about that?” 



248 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“Yes or no, please/’ 

She shook her head negatively. 

“ I thought not. Then why did your husband 
call the police off last night?” 

Mrs. Arnhem pressed her lips together. She 
would not meet Parsons’ eyes. She fumbled 
with her handkerchief again. 

“At whose request?” Parsons asked softly. 

He waited a moment. 

“At yours?” 

Still she didn’t answer. 

Parsons’ eyes gleamed. 

“Why did you ask him to call the police 
off?” 

Her lips trembled. “I have said nothing. 
I tell you I know nothing. I won’t answer 
any more questions.” 

Parsons moved closer to her. 

“Mrs. Arnhem,” he said gently, “this is an 
ugly tangle. If the police aren’t satisfied with 
the first arrest they make, if they go far enough, 
you and your husband may find yourselves in 
a difficult situation. Trust me. Place your¬ 
self in my hands. Tell me what sooner or 
later I’ll find out anyway. ” 

“I won’t,” she cried. “I want to be left 
alone. I want to be left alone.” 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


249 

“They will not leave you alone/' he urged 
gently. “For your own sake, but particularly 
for your husband's, come with me to Mr. 
Hudson's office. There you may change your 
mind, and if you do, we can, perhaps, settle this 
case once and for all, and save you from—well, 
from the witness stand, anyway. It’s your best 
chance, Mrs. Arnhem, on my honour." 

“I don’t know what to do," she breathed. 
“I don't know what to do." 

“You will come with me." 

She glanced up appealingly. 

“It isn’t fair." 

“ I said, on my honour, it was your best chance. 
If you throw it away, if you let them drag you 
to court, heaven knows what scandal will grow." 

“I’ll come. I’ll get my things," she sur¬ 
rendered, and left the room. 

Hudson was doubtful. 

“Suppose she gives us the slip." 

Parsons smiled. 

“She won’t, and when she sees the coroner 
in your office and probably a policeman or two 
I think she’ll talk. I hate these tricks, but her 
husband-’’ 

He paused. 

“You’ve retained me, Mr. Hudson. I can’t 



250 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

go further until I have examined the place, and 
I must have that woman there. She is the 
key to the whole puzzle.” 

Mrs. Arnhem came back heavily veiled. In 
the cab Parsons warned her to guard her 
emotions carefully no matter what he should 
say or whom he might seem to implicate. 
Once he whispered to her and she nodded. 

When they reached the building the Central 
Office man had left his corner, but, as they 
stepped from the elevator at the fifth floor, 
Hudson saw him standing just outside the door 
of his office. He tried to walk down the hall 
as though nothing unusual were about to happen; 
but the Central Office man, after staring at him 
incredulously, put his hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you Mr. Hudson?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re wanted.” 

Hudson entered his room, but the other fol¬ 
lowed quickly, jingling a pair of handcuffs. 

“Hold on! Not so fast!” 

“ Put those up, ” Parsons advised. “ Sit down, 
Mrs. Arnhem.” 

“Who are you?” the Central Office man 
demanded. 

“I am representing Mr. Hudson. If you 



OPEN EVIDENCE 


251 

want to make him safe stand by that door to 
the hall. The other leads to Doctor Seely’s 
office, and the windows are only useful for light 
and air and accidents.” 

“That’s what puts it up to him,” the man 
answered, “and I don’t want any sleight of 
hand while I ’phone for the patrol. ” 

Parsons chuckled. 

“Are you looking for a reputation as the 
prize blunderer of the Department ? Go ahead, 
then. Use those handcuffs. Send for your 
patrol. ” 

Uncharted responsibilities clearly had no lure 
for the Central Office man. 

“Coroner’s in there,” he suggested. 

“Then let things stand as they are for five 
minutes while I speak to the coroner. ” 

As Parsons opened the communicating door 
Hudson had a glimpse of a group of reporters 
about the janitor and Doctor Seely’s assistant. 
He was grateful none had chanced to step in 
the hall to observe his arrest. He leaned 
against the window-sill near Mrs. Arnhem, who, 
at Parsons’ request, had sunk into a chair in 
the corner. The Central Office man kept close 
to Hudson, his hand in his pocket. Hudson 
suspected what the hand grasped. 



252 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

In five minutes Parsons came through the 
door from the hall. The assistant and the 
janitor followed. Hudson could hear the coro¬ 
ner fighting back the reporters. 

“No, no, gentlemen. You can’t come in. I 
will tell you what there is to tell afterward. ’’ 

The coroner—aged, wizened, undersized— 
slipped through and closed and locked the door. 

“Now, Mr.-I didn’t get your name.” 

“Parsons.” 

“What’s all this?” 

“I merely want to show you how absurd it 
is to charge Mr. Hudson with this crime. ” 

“Inquest is the place for that.” 

“It would be too late then,” Parsons an¬ 
swered, “to save the police and the coroner 
from being grinned at. And suppose I should 
give you the real murderer?” 

“If you have any facts let’s hear them.” 
The coroner receded. 

The assistant sat in the corner opposite Mrs. 
Arnhem. The janitor leaned against the door. 
The coroner took Hudson’s desk chair and 
fumbled irritably with his sleeves. 

“But it’s a waste of time,” he said. “No 
one could have left the room after the murder 
without Mr. Hudson’s seeing him. So he’s 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


253 

guilty or he knows who is. We need him 
either way. ” 

“You want to arrest him,” Parsons answered, 
“ because of a mistaken idea, and for motive all 
you can dig up is a silly quarrel. I take it for 
granted you’ve noticed the relative position of 
the stairs and the elevator. Then you know 
the murderer could have entered and left the 
building unobserved; and there are other ways 
out of that room. For instance, I examined 
the spring bolt. If it is set in a certain position 
and the door is closed sharply it will snap into 
place.” 

“Who would know of that?” the coroner 
asked. 

“Well—the janitor. We only have his word 
for it that the door was bolted at all. ” 

The janitor straightened. 

“See here, I won’t be dragged into this.” 

“Very unlikely,” the coroner said. 

“Then I will show you a more obvious exit 
for the murderer. That communicating door 
was undoubtedly bolted only on one side—the 
doctor’s. People are careless about these things. 
If they try such doors at all they are generally 
content to find them tight without bothering 
to see if they are locked on both sides. Prob- 


254 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

ably there are other doors in this building in 
the same case. When these rooms were de¬ 
scribed to me, instead of thinking the thing 
impossible except for Mr. Hudson, I pictured 
a very plausible escape for the murderer. I 
could see him, either appalled by his crime or 
occupied by a search of the doctor’s office, 
losing track of time for twenty minutes until 
he heard Mr. Hudson and the janitor in the 
hall. Then I saw him, trapped, looking wildly 
around for a means of escape. This com¬ 
municating door offered the only one. Perhaps 
he had recognized Mr. Hudson’s voice and 
knew his room was empty. At any rate, he 
took the single chance, threw back the bolt, 
and found the door would open. I could fancy 
him entering here and waiting breathlessly 
until he heard them break in. Then, knowing 
they would have eyes for nothing but what they 
had found, he slipped across the hall, down the 
stairs, and out of the building unobserved. ” 

Parsons closely watched the effect of the 
suggestion on his audience. The coroner ac¬ 
cepted it readily enough. 

“It’s plausible. I hadn’t thought of it.” 

“Against Mr. Hudson,” Parsons went on, 
“you have left the motive of a quarrel over the 


OPEN EVIDENCE 25s 

same thing that led to the discovery of the 
body—a noisy telephone.” 

“There’s a deeper motive than that,” the 
Central Office man grumbled. 

Parsons grinned at him. 

“Pearls! Pearls! We’re all terribly excited 
about pearls!” 

“What do you know about them?” the 
Central Office man demanded. 

But Parsons paid no attention. He spoke 
to the coroner again. 

“Mrs. Arnhem, whom I have brought here, 
lost a valuable string of pearls day before 
yesterday somewhere between her house and 
Doctor Seely’s office. She came and went in 
her own automobile. As her chauffeur, who 
is a trusted servant, helped her in and out of 
the machine, he must have noticed if the 
pearls had dropped on the sidewalk. So it’s 
almost certain they were lost in this building— 
in Doctor Seely’s office, in the hall, or the 
elevator. Am I not right, Mrs. Arnhem?” 

Mrs. Arnhem’s heavy veil trembled an assent. 

“Doctor Seely knew of the loss or theft,” 
Parsons continued. “Suppose the janitor had 
picked up the necklace ? Suppose Doctor Seely 
had taxed the janitor with having them?” 


256 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“See here/' the janitor said huskily, “I 
never saw-" 

Parsons stopped him with a gesture. He 
studied his face. 

“After all, the circumstantial evidence against 
you is stronger then everything we hold against 
Mr. Hudson. " 

“Put 'em both where we can get ’em," 
the Central Office man suggested. 

“ Brain cells are often more useful than prison 
cells," Parsons objected mildly. 

The coroner motioned the Central Office man 
to be quiet. 

“Go on, Mr. Hudson. Go on." 

Parsons turned to the assistant. 

“Did you tell them Mr. Arnhem, in a bad 
temper, came to see Doctor Seely this noon?" 

“Yes." 

“What have you done about Arnhem, Mr. 
Coroner?" 

“Wired we’d want his testimony at the 
inquest." 

“Good Lord! I should think so! Then he’s 
left?" 

“They said at his office he expected to make 
the three-fifteen train." 

“Ample time to do the killing," Parsons cried. 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


257 

“Mr. Parsons/’ the coroner objected a little 
testily, “Arnhem had evidently left here before 
Doctor Seely went to lunch.” 

“Of course they never come back,” Parsons 
smiled. 

His grave look returned. 

“Mrs. Arnhem, tell me: Did you and your 
husband quarrel last night? You said you 
would trust me.” 

“Yes.” 

The voice from behind the veil was scarcely 
audible. 

“Why did you quarrel?” 

The veil shook, but she didn’t answer. 

“Remember what I told you,” Parsons 
warned. “Perhaps you’ll tell us how your 
husband learned of the loss of the pearls. 
Did you voluntarily mention it to him?” 

“No. He asked me that night where they 
were.” 

“I see. Then he notified the police. Wasn’t 
the quarrel caused by your own request last 
night that he call the police off?” 

After a long time she murmured, 

“Yes.” 

“Why should that have angered him?” 

“The pearls were very valuable. I didn’t 


258 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

realize myself how extraordinary the request 
was until he asked me to explain it. I—I 
couldn’t. I could only say that-” 

“Yes. What did you say?” 

“That Doctor Seely had asked me to make 
it, and I had agreed to see that it was done.” 

“What reason did Doctor Seely give you?” 

“I can’t answer that.” 

She nodded at the communicating door. ' 

“It wouldn’t be fair to him. He made me 
promise.” 

“We needn’t press the point now, but, gentle¬ 
men, surely you can guess. Your nerves are 
none the best, Mrs. Arnhem. Doctor Seely 
was treating you for them. Didn’t your nerves 
run away with you when your husband insisted 
on the explanation you couldn’t give?” 

“Yes. I became angry, a little hysterical.” 

“And how did you win your point?” 

“I refused to argue. I told him he must do 
it for my sake, without asking reasons.” 

“For your sake!” Parsons repeated triumph¬ 
antly. “She told her husband the police must 
be called off for her sake! He jumped at 
jealous conclusions, but he obeyed. That is 
significant. He obeyed for her sake. It proves 
that he misunderstood. Still angry, he left his 


OPEN EVIDENCE 


259 

wife this morning, and came down here to have 
it out with Seely. Somehow Seely held him 
off. But we know Arnhem could have re¬ 
entered the building unseen. We can conceive 
of his spending twenty minutes in there search¬ 
ing for the pearls which he may have thought 
Seely held as a present or as blackmail from 
his wife. We know he could have escaped 
through this room. And motive ? You couldn’t 
have a better one for a quarrel, with murder at 
the end. of it. Come, come. Won’t the hand¬ 
cuffs fit Arnhem.better than Mr. Hudson?” 

“A neat case,” the Central Office man 
acknowledged. “ We’ll wire and have Arnhem 
taken off the train.” 

“Yes, I’d do that,” the coroner agreed. 

“There’s only one question,” Parsons said. 
“Is it worth while causing unnecessary annoy¬ 
ance to another innocent person ? Circum¬ 
stantial evidence! Circumstantial evidence! It 
does go to one’s head!” 

“What are you driving at now?” the Central 
Office man wanted to know. 

“If you had sifted the facts in this affair,” 
Parsons answered: “if you had even reasoned 
along the line of least resistance while I was 
building up the circumstantial cases against the 



26 o the communicating door 


janitor and Mr. Arnhem; if you had drawn the 
more likely conclusions from what Mrs. Arnhem 
has told us, you would know that Doctor Seely’s 
murderer is with us now—in this room. If you 
must use those handcuffs, put them on this 
young Judas.” 

He sprang forward, grasped the assistant’s 
elbows, and held him struggling in his chair. 
“I think you’ll need them,” he added dryly. 

“No, no,” the assistant screamed. “I was 
like his own-” 

“Stop that,” Parsons cried. “The case 
against you is strong enough. Get the hand¬ 
cuffs on him, I say. ” 

As the Central Office man advanced the 
assistant got to his feet, scratching and kicking, 
and fought toward the door. Then the hand¬ 
cuffs snapped into place and Parsons let him 

go- 

“I’ll admit he looks guilty enough,” the 
coroner said. “But what evidence have you?” 

“If his miserable appearance isn’t sufficient 
conviction,” Parsons answered, “there’s evi¬ 
dence in plenty. The Central Office will easily 
be able to trace the sale of the pearls to him. 
You will find that his private life has been 
leading to something like this. You can learn 



OPEN EVIDENCE 261 

where he lunched to-day. He will be unable 
to account for the hour afterward during which 
Doctor Seely was killed. This conclusion was 
almost inevitable. It was reasonable, as our 
Central Office friend will tell you, to connect 
the loss of the pearls with the murder; and when 
Mr. Hudson told me his story the assistant 
seemed the only person who would fit the case 
from all angles. The little unwilling informa¬ 
tion I extracted from Mrs. Arnhem pointed in 
the same direction. Mr. Hudson told me that 
Mrs. Arnhem called up Doctor Seely’s office 
this afternoon shortly after the murder. She 
said these significant words: ‘Well! Don’t be 
afraid. You’ve found him? Oh, he did get 
me into a lot of trouble.’ I couldn’t fancy a 
murderess saying such words unless she was 
insane. We traced the call to Mrs. Arnhem. 
I saw she knew nothing surely about the murder. 
Of course, then, she had thought she was ’phon¬ 
ing to the doctor, to whom her words would 
not have been an enigma. Who would have 
got her into a lot of trouble just now? The 
man who had taken her pearls. And with 
whom would she be most likely to have had 
that trouble? Her husband. It was equally 
clear, from what she said over the ’phone, that 


262 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

Doctor Seely was to see the thief to-day. 
Again, her husband was naturally anxious to 
recover the pearls, yet he had called the police 
off. It was easy to guess why, and Mrs. 
Arnhem has verified the guess. Under all the 
circumstances there is only one sensible reason 
why Doctor Seely should have made such an 
extraordinary request and surrounded it with 
so much secrecy. Just what did Doctor Seely 
say to you, Mrs. Arnhem? He could have no 
objection to your telling us now/’ 

“He said he had found out who had taken 
the pearls and that the thief had promised to 
turn them over to him to-day. The thief was 
repentant. The doctor had thought it over 
carefully, and he felt he must save him and give 
him another chance. So it was important the 
police should be stopped at all costs. He 
wouldn’t tell me any more, and he made me 
promise not to mention even that little to my 
husband.” 

“Exactly,” Parsons said. “The pearls were 
lost in this building. There is just one person 
in this building the doctor would be likely to 
protect—the boy he had seen through the 
medical school, the boy he treated like a son. 
But the pearls had been sold—perhaps sepa- 


OPEN EVIDENCE 263 

rately. The thief had promised to return them 
merely to gain time. His time was up this 
afternoon, but he had learned from his patron 
this morning what Mrs. Arnhem has already 
told us—that Doctor Seely had kept his secret. 
You understand his temptation. He couldn’t 
recover the pearls, but if Doctor Seely’s lips 
were closed he would be safe. The rest is 
simple. He slipped into the building after lun¬ 
cheon, waited for Doctor Seely, and, convinced 
there was no other way, struck the blow—a 
doctor, mind you, who knew its effect, who 
knew just where to place it. I was sure from 
the beginning no one but a doctor could have 
used that lancet with certainty. It was a 
silent, deadly, cowardly method—a blow struck 
from behind against the man who had loved 
him and tried to protect him.” 

“Stop! Stop!” the assistant gasped. 

“Afterward he shot the bolt of the door 
and went through the doctor’s papers to see 
if anything in writing was left to incriminate 
him. As soon as I glanced at the desk I knew 
someone familiar with its order had gone 
through it. He was the only one. I watched 
him while I talked to you. The strain had 
told. At first there was guilt and fear in his 


264 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

face. Later, when I led the trail to other 
people, there was too much relief. And now 
Doctor Seely himself convicts him through Mrs. 
Arnhem. Get your detectives after the pearls. 
There’s evidence enough to send him to the 
electric chair twice over.” 

At the mention of his likely punishment the 
assistant fell back and closed his eyes. 

“No, no,” he pleaded. “He struck me—self- 
defense!” 

“That’s enough,” Parsons snapped. 

He smiled. “But the world wags on, and 
hasn’t Mr. Hudson been disturbed sufficiently 
this afternoon? He’s doubtless anxious to get 
back to his work. Mrs. Arnhem, I should be 
glad to take you home.” 



VII 

THE OBSCURE MOVE 


H IS friends have never understood why 
Morgan, one of the best of private 
detectives, gave up the excitements of 
the trail for the stupid dignity of office manage¬ 
ment. Morgan, naturally, didn’t care to talk 
about it at first. Time is a good carpenter, 
however, and Morgan feels now that he may 
safely stand on the record. Here it is: 

To begin with, Morgan was an odd one. If 
you had questioned him about the deductive 
method he would have laughed good-naturedly. 
It is equally certain that the mention of psy¬ 
chological analysis would have sent him to the 
dictionary for a clue. Common-sense and a 
sense of humour were his own stock in trade. 
His specialty was the smooth crook who keeps 
the money of the carelessly avaricious in circu¬ 
lation. Consequently he wore expensive cloth¬ 
ing himself. He smoked large, fragrant cigars 
of Havana. When on the road—which was 

265 


266 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


nine tenths of the time in those days—he 
frequented only the most luxurious hotels. 
Furthermore, he was fast acquiring an appear¬ 
ance of rotund prosperity quite out of key with 
the best-loved traditions of the stealthy pro¬ 
fession. Still, as has been said, he was one of 
the most successful in that business. 

Therefore, when the Duncan Investment Com¬ 
pany closed its doors it was not surprising that 
the victims should have carried their resentment 
from the formal optimism of police head¬ 
quarters to Morgan’s agency. 

Duncan, they explained, had fled with large 
sums which he had persuaded them to invest 
through a trifling lure of from fifty to a hundred 
per cent. They were law-abiding citizens none 
the less, and they felt it their duty to society to 
see that Duncan, who had taken so much, should 
also receive what was judicially owing to him. 

Morgan lighted a fresh perfecto. 

“Rest easy,” he told his clients. “I’ll place 
Mr. Duncan in an iron cage where you can poke 
your fingers at him all you like.” 

After the sheep had flocked out, he gazed 
about his comfortable office, filled his pockets 
with cigars, locked his cellarette, and set forth 
on his adventures. 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 267 

Morgan took the customary precautions in 
case the confidence man had his heart set on 
Canada or a trip abroad. But Duncan was 
too wary to thrust his head in the lion’s jaw 
through any such first-offence methods. In¬ 
stead he revealed the attributes of an eel, 
squirming, dodging, and once or twice nearly 
slipping across the Mexican border. The stout, 
good-natured detective, however, seemed to 
possess a special intuition. Time and again 
he made Duncan turn on his tracks. Then a 
very natural thing happened. When the chase 
got too hot, Duncan, who had been born and 
raised in Florida, sought ground which would 
be far more familiar to him than to his pursuer. 
Yet Morgan, entering Florida, was reminiscent 
of nothing so much as a fat, grinning cat, 
approaching the holeless corner into which he 
has driven his mouse. 

When the police channels had run dry, the 
detective called on that peculiar intuition of 
his and bothered the lumber, turpentine, and 
phosphate men until he had located the fugitive 
in a timber camp far in the wilderness. Morgan 
was justly proud. Few men, if they had studied 
Duncan’s record, would have dreamed of look¬ 
ing for him in the vicinity of manual labour. 



268 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


Morgan’s work had chiefly lain in comfort- 
furnished cities, but, by rail, by boat, by spring¬ 
less wagon, he bravely followed the trail. One 
crisp morning he reached his destination—a 
group of tiny, unpainted cabins clustered about 
a sawmill and a commissary. 

With a look of high achievement lighting his 
face, Morgan shook the camp superintendent’s 
hand. 

“ Peary and Amundsen and Doctor Cook 
have nothing on me,” he said. “Just remind 
me to jot down my latitude and longitude so 
people’ll believe I’ve really been here.” 

The superintendent stared. 

“And it’s inhabited!” Morgan went on with 
awe in his voice. “I’ll write a book, and may¬ 
be get decorated by the Swiss—or the Swedes, 
is it? Well, I made my dash on your word.” 

“How come you to suspect he was here?” 
the superintendent asked. 

Morgan’s voice fell. 

“Perhaps a fortune teller saw it in the cards.” 

He laughed. 

“What you laughing at?” the superintendent 
asked suspiciously. 

“The idea of Beau Duncan’s living here! 
Which may be his stylish bungalow?” 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 269 

“His quarters, you mean? The shanty yon¬ 
der with the busted window light.” 

“And some of the best hotels have stopped 
paying dividends since he left town. The 
lobster palaces are all in heliotrope for him. 
Where’s old Beau Brummel Duncan now? At 
the golf club or leading a black-face cotillion?” 

“Naw,” the superintendent said. “I allow 
he’s doing an honest day’s work on the skidder. 
That’s about three miles from here.” 

“The president of your company told me you 
were a deputy sheriff. ” 

The superintendent proudly displayed his 
badge. 

“Maybe it puts us in the same criminal class 
with Duncan,” Morgan said, “but we’re paid 
to work. Let’s make a bluff, anyway. ” 

The superintendent led two raw-boned little 
horses from the corral. He considered Morgan’s 
portly person with a thoughtful eye, then 
brought a soap box from the commissariat. 
Morgan mounted to the soap box and thence 
to the saddle. He settled himself gingerly. 

“Don’t you worry if you ever run out of 
razors,” he advised. “You might take a chance 
on Dobbin’s backbone. I’ve tried every means 
of locomotion on this case except aviating, and 


2 7 o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

if Dobbin gallops it will be that or coming in 
two. I think animals are fond of you. Use 
your influence. Don’t let this one overdo him¬ 
self on my account. ” 

Proceeding cautiously, they followed the lum¬ 
ber tramway until they came to an open space 
where a donkey engine was noisily loading logs 
on a string of flat cars. At first Morgan 
thought the workers about the engine were all 
negroes, but finally he realized that, except for 
dirt and grime, one of them was white. 

“ According to the description that ought to 
be my affinity,” he said. 

They dismounted and left the horses loose, 
as they had shown no exceptional aggressive¬ 
ness, to crop the wiry grass. Morgan followed 
the superintendent in a wide and casual circle 
toward the donkey engine. The superintend¬ 
ent, as though he were showing off the activities 
of the clearing to an interested stranger, fre¬ 
quently stopped to point with broad gestures 
in one direction or another. 

“Better cut that stuff,” Morgan warned. 
“ Remember, Duncan isn’t any stage crook. 
He has real brains.” 

Duncan, in fact, had already turned from his 
work. He leaned on his log hook, staring at 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 271 

the detective. Then he carefully placed the 
hook on a flat car, thrust his hands in his 
pockets, and loafed in the direction of the 
horses. Morgan and the superintendent quick¬ 
ened their pace. Evidently that was sufficient 
proof for Duncan, for, with a yell, he threw pre¬ 
tence aside, vaulted a log, and broke into a run. 

Morgan started heavily after him, but Dun¬ 
can was younger, slenderer, and much better 
conditioned. By the time Morgan had reached 
his horse and had clambered to the saddle in 
apparent defiance of the laws of gravity, Duncan 
was already well away on a sandy track which 
entered the woods at a right angle to the tram¬ 
way. 

When duty beckoned no chances were too 
great for Morgan. He set his teeth as he urged 
his horse to a gallop. Swaying from side to 
side or bobbing up and down with surprised 
little grunts, he clutched impulsively at the 
animal’s mane and went in pursuit. 

The track wound into the virgin forest. 
Almost immediately the landscape seemed to 
conspire lawlessly for the protection of the 
fugitive. The trees thickened. A dense under¬ 
brush sprang up. A growth of saplings clut¬ 
tered the soil between the trunks. Morgan’s 


272 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

horse was a self-centred brute. In worming 
his quick way among the saplings, he allowed 
only for his emaciated body. Consequently, the 
detective had to look out for his own too-solid 
person. What with lifting one fat leg or the 
other to escape bruises and fractures against 
the eager saplings, and what with ducking 
beneath overhanging branches to avoid being 
brushed from the saddle, he must have pre¬ 
sented the appearance of a grotesque jumping- 
jack answering to eccentric strings. 

Duncan clearly received this impression, for 
the last Morgan saw of him the other was 
going through a black, shallow stream, his hand 
upraised in a mocking and undignified farewell. 
And the last Morgan heard of him was laughter 
—unrestrained, joyous, insulting. 

But Morgan plodded ahead, hoping that the 
hummock would soon give way to open forest 
land where he might wear the fugitive down. 
The underbrush, however, closed more riotously 
about him. There were many stagnant pools 
which obscured and finally obliterated Duncan’s 
trail. Morgan brought his horse to a halt. 
He half fell from his saddle. He looked about 
him, for once at a loss. 

Yellow slash pine, towering with forbidding 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 


273 

indifference in all directions, spread their green- 
plumed tops in a roof so thick that the sun 
could force its way through only at long inter¬ 
vals. Scrub palmettos, like huge caterpillars, 
squirmed along the ground and thrust green 
tentacles upward from their ends. Here and 
there one reared its body higher than horse 
and man. Stunted maple and gum fought for 
life in the perpetual twilight, and in the wettest 
places thick-boled cypresses raised their ghastly 
frames, strung with moss that had the appear¬ 
ance of matted hair. The ground was soggy 
underfoot, and the air was hot, damp, and full 
of decay. 

Morgan whistled. 

“This/’ he mused, “is somewhat more of a 
place than that panorama of hades I paid ten 
cents to see in Coney Island last summer. Be¬ 
sides, it’s several stations farther from Times 
Square. ” 

He took off his hat, drew an immaculate 
linen handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped 
his heated brow. There was no virtue in stub¬ 
bornness now. Duncan had undoubtedly given 
him the slip for the present. His best scheme 
was to return to the lumber camp, where he 
could arrange to watch the outlets of the forest. 


274 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

He mounted with considerable difficulty and 
some strategy, then turned his horse’s head. 
But the many stagnant pools had confused his 
own trail as thoroughly as they had Duncan’s. 
When the sun set he made a wry face and 
acknowledged he was lost. 

The prospect of spending the night in the 
swamp was very annoying to one of Morgan’s 
habits. Since his lungs were perfectly sound 
he had never interested himself in all this talk 
about outdoor sleeping, but he was ready to 
back at odds the fact that it couldn’t be done 
either comfortably or beneficially here. The 
ground was too wet for one thing, and, for 
another, it was probably friendly to snakes. 
He had a wholesome respect for snakes. Yet 
he was certain his raw-boned horse couldn’t 
support him all night. He had already ex¬ 
amined him several times to see if his back 
was sagging. 

He tumbled to the ground again, tied the 
horse to a sapling, and walked to a fallen log. 
After he had thoroughly searched the neighbour¬ 
hood for reptiles, he sat down and munched 
some of the sweet chocolate he always carried 
for emergencies. Then he lighted a red-banded 
Havana. His heart sank at the recollection 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 275 

that his pocket carried only two more of those 
luxuries. Ah, well, they would last until the 
next morning, when he would certainly be back 
at the camp. 

While he smoked, the drowsy wood life of 
the warm day melted into a new note as the 
melancholy creatures of night awoke. Morgan 
shivered. He had never cared for the country. 
The only birds whose music he understood 
fluttered along Broadway or in and out of the 
Tombs. 

He sprang upright at a rustling in the grass 
behind the log. Snakes, he was sure! He 
lamented his lack of experience with country 
jobs, but he remembered reading somewhere 
that hunters built fires as a protection against 
such rural denizens as lions and tigers. It 
might work with snakes. He gathered a pile 
of sticks and started a meagre blaze. After¬ 
ward he lay down, but rest was not easy in the 
swamp. An owl declaimed its dismal periods 
near by; a whippoorwill called disconsolately; 
a high-pitched, vibrant outcry brought him 
erect, every nerve alert, his hand on his revolver; 
some heavy body crashed past; always he 
imagined furtive rustlings in the grass about 
him. A case had once taken him to the opera. 


276 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

He had slept through “Gotterdammerung,” but 
that was a soporific compared with this. 

It began to rain. He saw his fire diminish 
and die. He fancied the rustlings were closer, 
and he had no idea what hunters did when their 
fires went out. He lifted his feet. He hugged 
his knees. In this unprofessional attitude he 
spent the remainder of the night without sleep. 

When the gray dawn came he looked in vain 
for his horse. The broken bridle dangled elo¬ 
quently from the sapling. 

Chilled to the bone and wet, Morgan set out, 
determined to make Duncan pay in some way 
for this night just past. He imagined the con¬ 
fidence man, at the end of a multiplicity of 
adventures, completely at his mercy—even on 
his knees, begging for mercy. What he wouldn’t. 
say to Duncan then! Or, if Duncan resisted, 
what he wouldn’t do to Duncan! These pleas¬ 
ant thoughts served to pass the time, but they 
brought him no nearer the edge of the swamp. , 
When night fell his weariness overcame his fear 
of snakes and he slept. 

By rare good luck he shot a wild turkey the 
next morning and managed to broil it over a 
smouldering fire. Near that fire he stayed all 
day, for it still rained and he felt rheumatic. 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 277 

Another night came, and another day of rain. 
He lost track of time. The feeling that he had 
spent most of his life in the swamp depressed 
him. As a matter of fact, it was the fifth day 
when the storm finally ceased. 

Morgan, sitting in the warm, bland sunlight, 
took stock of himself. The prosperous, well- 
dressed detective who had entered the swamp 
had become a mass of discomforts to which 
rags clung. He was undecided as to whether 
the rheumatism or his lack of tobacco hurt the 
more. He had only two cartridges left, and 
from past experience he knew they might not 
bring him a single morsel. It behooved him to 
get on his feet and escape from this hole, rheu¬ 
matism or no rheumatism. 

With the sun shining he could be reasonably 
sure he was keeping to a straight line. But 
the swamp was evidently interminable. His 
lack of success pricked his anger against Dun¬ 
can. He swore aloud. 

“Let me get my hands on that slick article 
who let me in for this! Just let me see him! 
Just let me get within striking distance!” 

It was about this time that he turned pale 
and leaned weakly against a tree. He had 
heard a man shout. 


2 7 S THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

As he opened his lips he wondered if the rain, 
the cold, the long disuse had affected his voice. 
Would it respond to his will at this vital moment ? 
It was more than a shout. It was a roar that 
left his throat. And from somewhere a voice 
answered, triumphantly, hysterically. 

Almost immediately Morgan saw a man run¬ 
ning toward him, splashing through pools, wav¬ 
ing his arms, crying out incoherently. Morgan 
straightened and began running, too, in the 
direction of this figure so like a scarecrow. It 
was a human being. It meant companionship, 
conversation, a touch of the world again. 
Heaven knew he needed all that! 

Then Morgan saw that it was Duncan. At the 
same moment Duncan saw that it was Morgan. 

Duncan sprang behind a tree. He thrust his 
arms out in frantic gestures. Morgan drew his 
revolver. He walked steadily forward. 

“Duncan, my dear, it’s struck twelve. Come 
on out now and take your medicine. ” 

“Gently! Gently!” Duncan called. “I give 
you fair warning!” 

Morgan walked faster. 

“Fire away. Til take my chances/’ 

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Duncan said. 
“I haven’t a gun. Do you think I would harm 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 


279 

a hair of your head if I had? I have a better 
weapon than that. Come any closer and I’ll 
run like the devil.” 

Morgan stopped. Vengeance was in his heart, 
but he permitted himself a glimpse at the reverse 
of the picture. 

“Duncan! For God’s sake, don’t do that!” 

“Then you’ll listen to reason.” 

Morgan smiled again. 

“It’s a bluff, Duncan. Maybe you can run 
like Bryan, but you haven’t the nerve.” 

“Be reasonable or you’ll see,” Duncan threat¬ 
ened. “I’m a human being. So are you, I 
take it.” 

Morgan’s smile broadened. 

“Don’t be foolish with other people’s money 
and bet on it.” 

Duncan pulled at the torn fringe of his shirt 
sleeves. He shifted his feet. 

“Suppose I surrendered?” he asked. “Where 
would you find a policeman or a patrol wagon? 
Could you get me out of here?” 

“I can’t seem to find a taxi for myself,” 
Morgan replied. “But I’ll land you in the 
cooler yet.” 

“If we live,” Duncan said, “and nothing 
happens, and all goes well, and deus volens.” 


28 o the communicating door 


“Don’t swear in a foreign tongue,” Morgan 
answered. 

“Let’s confer on the main problem,” Duncan 
proposed. “If you don’t agree I’ll run and 
leave you alone. I don’t believe you’re very 
good company for yourself just now.” 

“As far as that’s concerned,” Morgan grinned, 
“if I were you I’d hate myself by this time.” 

“So I do, and I want a truce,” Duncan 
blurted out. 

Morgan sighed. 

“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll mark this 
place, and when we’re through you can go play 
Indian again.” 

Duncan stepped out. His hair was heavy and 
tangled. The thick black growth on his face 
made his eyes seem very large, white, and hungry. 

“If I had had you along,” Morgan said, “I 
needn’t have been afraid of the snakes.” 

Duncan came straight to him and put his 
hand on his shoulder. 

“You don’t know how good it is to see you, 
Morgan. I’ve been denied even the companion¬ 
ship of my horse. He got bogged. ” 

Morgan’s voice was a little husky as he asked: 

“ Say, you don’t happen to have a cigar hidden 
away on your clothes?” 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 281 

“No, but I retain the essentials.” 

He produced a large sack of cheap flake 
tobacco and a package of cigarette papers. 

“I never smoked those puff rolls,” Morgan 
said disappointedly. “I couldn’t roll one of 
them if it would get me out of this swamp. ” 

“Permit me to roll it for you,” Duncan 
offered. 

And he did it, deftly and lovingly, and passed 
it to the detective. Then he rolled one for 
himself, and they sat on a log, shoulders touch¬ 
ing, while they smoked contentedly. 

“So you’re Bob Morgan!” Duncan said. 
“The famous Morgan! I must confess your 
present state isn’t up to your reputation. You 
might at least have brought a few necessities 
in with you. ” 

Morgan glanced at the soiled, tattered figure. 

“Beau,” he said, “believe me, you’re not up 
to it. If you come any more of that easy 
money talk on me I’ll scream for help. ” 

They both spoke in soft, silky, wondering 
voices, as though admiring the unaccustomed 
sounds; and at Morgan’s words they burst into 
high-pitched laughter that was so terrifying in 
their ears it ceased immediately. 

“Glad to meet you, Duncan,” Morgan said 


282 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

gruffly. “But I don’t want to tap any wires 
or buy any green goods. Let that be under¬ 
stood. ” 

Duncan shook his head. 

“Morgan,” he announced, “there is some¬ 
thing radically wrong with us. ” 

“ Better patent that discovery. ” 

Duncan shook his head again. 

“No,” he continued. “We’re not living up 
to tradition. ” 

“I’m scarcely living at all,” Morgan said. 

“For a detective and a fugitive,” Duncan 
declared, “we show extraordinary good sense. 
Romantically speaking, we should be at each 
other’s throats.” 

“Cut it, and prepare me another whiff of joy. ” 

But Duncan good-humouredly refused to man¬ 
ufacture any more cigarettes until Morgan had - 
consented to some working arrangement. 

The decision to join forces until they had 
found a way out of the swamp, if the thing 
could be done, was a matter of a moment. That 
the chase should recommence once they were 
out was also agreed to at once. They divided 
only on the start the detective should give the 
criminal. Morgan offered half an hour, and 
Duncan demanded half a day. Morgan wanted 




THE OBSCURE MOVE 283 

to smoke. Duncan was hungry. Morgan pro¬ 
duced from his pocket a few small bones to 
which tiny shreds of meat still clung, and these 
he kept prominently in view while the other 
carelessly dangled the paper and the tobacco 
bag in his fingers. They began to compromise. 

By the time they had settled on an hour and a 
half the sun was down. They made camp. 
Duncan proved himself more adept than Mor¬ 
gan at building fires. When he had a pile of 
brushwood blazing he went in search of certain 
edible roots on which he had largely subsisted 
for the last few days. He brought some of 
these back and shared them with the detective. 

The gobbling of wild turkeys awoke them at 
dawn, and they crept to a clump of palmettos 
at the foot of a dead cypress. As the sky 
lightened behind the gibbet-like branches, a 
row of birds appeared in silhouette. Morgan 
rested his arm against a palmetto trunk, aimed, 
and brought one of the birds down. 

Duncan patted him on the back. 

“You would have made a fortune conducting 
a shooting gallery, Morgan. ” 

“Yeh. And if I live to tell about that shot 
up north, Til feel like a liar and everybody’ll 
know I’m one.” 


284 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

The turkey solved the food problem for the 
present, and, as long as the sun shone, they 
knew their chances for speedy escape were 
good. But the clouds turned black again in 
the afternoon, and a dismal downpour com¬ 
menced. 

“ Doesn’t it do anything but rain in this 
hole?” Morgan grieved. 

“We are below the snow line,” Duncan ex¬ 
plained. “I suggest camping here before we 
start walking in circles.” 

They made a fire and by the last daylight 
gathered a heap of wood. 

Duncan regretted their lack of a pack of cards 
to pass the time. This gave Morgan a thought. 

“You don’t happen by any crazy chance to 
play chess, Duncan?” 

“I know something more than the moves.” 

“Three cheers,” Morgan cried. 

He felt in his pocket and brought forth a 
small pocket chess board. 

“When I’m travelling alone I often irritate 
myself working problems on this. I was using 
it on the train only a thousand years or so 
ago. ” 

They moved closer to the fire, tossed for 
sides, arranged the markers, and in a few min- 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 


285 

utes their minds were far away from the swamp 
and their plight. They were well matched. 
Morgan, who had the white pieces, opened 
with a brilliant, puzzling attack on the king’s 
side; but Duncan, with confidence and fore¬ 
thought, combined his forces in a flawless de¬ 
fense. As they recognized each other’s ability 
they took more time for their moves. Morgan 
would lean forward, pursing his lips, studious 
lines showing on his forehead, while Duncan, 
eyes intent on the board, would roll a couple 
of cigarettes, pass one to his opponent, reach 
out his hand to the fire, and offer a burning 
brand for a light. It was very exciting. Per¬ 
haps they saw in the game a symbol of their 
relations—detective against criminal, and both 
most excellent players. It was very late when 
Morgan unmasked his rooks and trapped Dun¬ 
can’s knight on the king’s line. 

Duncan leaned back. 

“You play a strong game, Morgan.” 

The detective was pleased by his victory. 

“You’re pretty good practice for me, Beau,” 
he conceded. “But you ought to have left that 
pawn of mine alone. It was a gold brick. Oh! 
Excuse me for talking shop. Hello! It’s still 
raining. ” 


286 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

The storm ceased the next day for only a 
few minutes. They did not travel far, be¬ 
cause Morgan complained of what he called 
his growing pains. 

That night they played chess again. Dun¬ 
can won. 

“A game apiece,” Morgan said. “To-mor¬ 
row night’ll be the rubber. Waterloo won’t be 
jack stones to what I’ll do to you.” 

But Morgan was in no condition to walk 
the next day. He lay by the smouldering fire, 
inclined to complain. 

“Another twenty-four hours and you’ll be 
all right,” Duncan said cheerily. 

“I’ll never be all right again,” Morgan 
lamented. 

Duncan dried enough sticks and moss at the 
fire to make a crude bed. He lifted Morgan 
from the wet ground, then prepared a soup of 
turkey bones and roots in the detective’s drink¬ 
ing cup. Morgan drank it with relish, but his 
ailments occupied his mind to the exclusion of 
chess. So Duncan sat at his side, watching the 
fire and trying to keep up his spirits. 

The last clouds sailed away in the morning. 
The cold, wet weather was routed. But Mor¬ 
gan’s vocabulary was not sufficiently large to 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 287 

let him walk far at a time. After several 
attempts he gave up and lay down, groaning. 

“Poor old Morgan,” Duncan said, leaning 
sympathetically over him. 

“Go to the corner and send in an ambulance 
call,” Morgan answered, with a grimace. 
“Then bid me farewell before it begins to 
pour again. If you hang around for me we’ll 
both die of water on the brain. ” 

Duncan patted his shoulder. 

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t get delirious— 
Bob.” 

For some time Morgan frowned at the fire. 

“Beau,” he said at last, “I mean it. I 
haven’t got the build for a millstone. Be¬ 
sides, I can’t be under obligations. I can’t let 
pleasure interfere with business. If you get 
out do me just two favours. Send a posse in 
for me and wire the office to get another man 
after you as quick as lightning. ” 

“My position is very simple,” Duncan an¬ 
swered. “I wouldn’t leave you if you offered 
me title to all the real estate in this swamp.” 

Morgan grinned. 

“ Since you’re talking shop, Beau, you may be 
a Southern cavalier and me a Yankee born, but 
I never took fifty per cent., and I see ten 


288 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 


suckers in my business any day where you see 
one.” 

“No use trying to get me mad, Bobbie. 
I’m too selfish to leave you and face this cheer¬ 
less world alone. ” 

“Well, just remember, Beau, I ’11 get you. 
As sure as the whole world’s gone to grass and 
water, Til get you.” 

“I admire ambition,” Duncan said. “I re¬ 
gret that I can not encourage it. But the 
problem need not trouble us at present. Let 
me make you comfortable, then I’ll roll you 
another cigarette. ” 

He carried Morgan to a sunny spot, and 
gave his limbs a thorough, hard massage. 
Afterward the detective struggled up and began 
to walk in a crouching position. Duncan cut 
a stout stick for him. He took his arm and 
helped him all he could. 

“You’re sure full of sand, Bob,” he said. 

Without answering, Morgan walked on. Now 
and then he would pause, but always, after a 
few minutes’ rest, he would start forward again. 
By and by his figure crouched less and his 
steps grew longer. 

He was exhausted when they made camp, 
but the worst of his pains had left him, and it 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 289 

was he who proposed after supper that they 
play the rubber game. 

“I’m an awful object to think about,” he 
explained. “Men have gone nutty over less. 
Fve got to get my mind off myself. Besides, 
Fd like to know who’s the better man. If I 
hadn’t lost sight of one thing last time there 
wouldn’t have been anything to it.” 

The game was slow. Each was determined 
to win, so each took as long as he pleased for 
his moves. Morgan, when he could scarcely 
keep his eyes open, suggested that they post¬ 
pone the finish until the next evening. 

“I guess Fm trained a little fine,” he said. 
“I don’t want to make a slip.” 

“It looks like a draw to me,” Duncan an¬ 
swered. 

“It looked as though Fd get out of this 
swamp the day I came in, but did I? Study 
the board. I can see more than one way to 
slip over a knock-out.” 

Duncan laughed. 

“Fm afraid you’ll never win this game.” 

“Fve got to and I will,” Morgan said. 
“I’ll bet you three pine trees and a case of 
swamp water—magnums!” 

He folded the board, returned it to his 


2 9 o THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

pocket, lay down, and was fast asleep in a 
twinkling. 

They were off by the time the sun had slipped 
its first long shadows through the swamp. 
Morgan was convalescent. He walked steadily 
onward, resting one hand on Duncan’s shoulder. 
They talked of the unfinished game which had 
assumed colossal proportions in their dwarfed 
minds. But that rubber was destined never 
to be finished. It was a little after noon when 
Morgan said in a hushed voice: 

“ Beau, wait a minute. ” 

“What’s the matter?” Duncan whispered as 
he stopped. 

“This darned swamp’s thinning.” 

“It had occurred to me,” Duncan agreed. 
“I was afraid to speak of it.” 

“Look at those palmetto clumps,” Morgan 
went on excitedly. “They’re not as high or 
as thick. There isn’t as much water. Beau, 
old boy, I believe we’re going to get out!” 

“There’s certainly higher ground ahead,” 
Duncan answered. “Come on, Bobbie.” 

“Beau! Think of the food and the cigars!” 

“Oh, you won’t have any taste for decent 
tobacco,” Duncan said carelessly. 

Morgan made a wry face and rubbed his knee. 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 


291 

“ And this rich food isn’t all it’s cracked up to 
be. Rich food for the idle rich!” 

They struggled through the last of the under¬ 
brush and stepped into the open pine forest. 
There was hard soil or sand beneath their feet. 
About them the sun laid warm, caressing 
fingers of light. Insects droned, and birds 
sang joyously. Before long they came to trees 
scarred by turpentiners, and later to a wood 
road. 

They paused and stood awkwardly for a few 
minutes without words. The road—narrow, 
twisting, and overgrown—screamed of civil¬ 
ization, of populous cities, and of marts noisy 
with commerce. 

“We’ve discovered America,” Morgan said. 

“Yes,” replied Duncan. In a moment he 
added: “I believe you agreed to give me an 
hour and a half. Therefore, I will resume my 
travels.” 

Morgan looked at him with an air of childish 
wonder. 

“So I did,” he answered dreamily—“an 
hour and a half!” 

He pulled his wits together. 

“Cross my heart, I’ll stay where I am for 
an hour and a half after I lose sight of you.” 


292 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

“Quite satisfactory,” Duncan said. 

“Before you go,” Morgan began uncomfort¬ 
ably, “I’d like to hand you a few words of 
thanks on this auspicious occasion. ” 

“There’s no question of thanks,” Duncan 
protested politely. “Undoubtedly we were 
mutually helpful.” 

Morgan extended his hand. 

“ Beau, good-bye. ” 

He essayed a little humour. 

“That is—so long. It won’t be many days 
before we meet again. I am looking forward 
to it.” 

Duncan took the detective’s hand. 

“This is an eternal farewell. In some ways 
I regret it. Good-bye, Bob. You’re sure you 
can navigate until you come to a house?” 

“Sure. I’ll steer into the first dry dock I 
see and have them light a fire under me. ” 

Their hands dropped. Duncan hesitated. 
Finally he put his fingers in his pocket, pulled 
out tobacco and paper, and rolled a cigarette. 
He handed it to Morgan, who mechanically 
placed it between his lips. Duncan divided 
the tobacco. He gave a part of it with several 
papers to Morgan. Then he turned and strode 
off through the woods. 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 293 

Morgan sat down. He watched the tall, 
gaunt figure about which ragged clothing flapped 
until it was out of sight. Very soon he be¬ 
came restless. He took the paper and tobacco 
and tried to make a cigarette, but his fingers 
were clumsy. The flakes spilled, and the thin, 
slippery paper tore. As his desire to smoke 
even this distasteful makeshift increased, the 
picture of Duncan’s deft manipulation came 
into his fancy and lingered. 

He opened the chess board to study the 
unfinished game. His line of attack was per¬ 
fectly clear in his mind now. As move by 
move its beauties unfolded he chuckled quietly. 
Duncan was helpless. Suddenly his chuckling 
ceased. There was one obscure move that 
Duncan might have offered in reply. It would 
have spoiled the entire combination. Yet it 
was the advancing of a pawn on the extreme 
flank, and its immediate significance appeared 
of minor importance. 

“Duncan wasn’t wise to it,” he told himself. 

And after a moment: 

“Could Duncan have been hep?” 

He puzzled over the board for a long time. 
He arose and paced back and forth. 

“He might have forced a draw with that 


294 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

move,” he mused, “or even a winning attack. 
I’ve got to know what he would have done. 
Til ask him when I nab him.” 

He took out his watch. Duncan had been 
gone two hours. 

Morgan didn’t follow the route Duncan had 
taken. The memory of his lonely wanderings 
kept him in the road which brought him before 
dark to a turpentine camp. He accepted the 
foreman’s hospitality for the night. 

He set out early the next morning with the 
foreman’s horse and buggy which he was to 
send back from the nearest railroad station, 
five hours away. The road was long and 
monotonous, but he sat at his ease, smoking 
bad cigars which he had bought at the camp, 
and singing snatches of popular songs in praise 
of his release from muscular effort. 

His thoughts of Duncan centred about the 
uncompleted game of chess. While he was 
confident that Duncan’s capture was only a 
matter of time, he refused to bother his head 
with definite plans until he reached the rail¬ 
road. These few hours, this long journey, were a 
vacation from mental and physical labour— 
an excursion in contentment. 

The appearance of the country had not 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 


295 

altered when the shriek of a locomotive whistle 
warned him his ride was nearly ended. He 
touched the whip to his horse for the first time 
and was soon on the right of way. He saw 
the glittering lines of steel, a rough section 
house, and a water tank; but in front of him 
the woods were as thick as those he had just 
left. He pulled up, thoroughly puzzled, for 
he had expected to find a station at this crossing. 

Suddenly his curiosity died. His indolent 
figure stiffened. His hand went to his coat 
pocket where the revolver with its single re¬ 
maining cartridge lay. A filthy man in rags 
was trying to conceal himself behind one of the 
insufficient tank supports. 

Morgan stepped from the buggy, levelling 
his revolver. 

“Duncan,” he said, “I warned you it was 
‘ so long. ’ ” 

“It's Morgan, of all the world,” Duncan 
answered, but his smile was sickly. “If that 
train had only stopped Pd have missed this 
pleasant reunion. ” 

“You ought to be grateful. Nice people are 
waiting to weep on your neck up North. Come 
on out and let’s hurry home. ” 

“Not so fast, Morgan. I can easily get 


296 THE COMMUNICATING DOOR 

away from you. But I confess to a strong de¬ 
sire to finish that game. Suppose for that pur¬ 
pose we arrange another truce. ” 

“We’ll finish it on the train,” Morgan an¬ 
swered with a grin. “I’ve got you beaten so 
many ways I blush to think of it.” 

“Have you?” Duncan asked slily. “How 
about that pawn? I win!” 

Morgan’s mouth opened. His revolver arm 
dropped. 

“You never saw that-” 

Duncan sprang from behind his post, and 
bounded across the right of way for the woods. 

Morgan raised his arm again. 

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” 

But Duncan ran the faster. The muzzle of 
Morgan’s revolver was pointed at the fugitive’s 
back. He had brought down wild turkeys. 
The result was certain. 

Then his arm swayed gently to one side. 
The movement seemed almost involuntary. 
He pulled the trigger. He sped his last car¬ 
tridge into the heart of an innocent pine tree. 

He thrust the gun in his pocket and started 
in pursuit. When he reached the edge of the 
woods Duncan had disappeared. Morgan sank 
to the ground. He rubbed his knees ruefully. 


THE OBSCURE MOVE 


297 

He shook his head. He shrugged his shoulders. 
Sitting there in a heap he lighted one of his 
vile cigars. 

“That blasted rheumatism!” he moaned. 
“That blasted rheumatism! It must have 
jumped to my gun arm. I’ll have to report 
sick. I’m not worth a hill of beans at this 
business as I am. I wonder if I’ve got any¬ 
thing besides rheumatism.” 

As he blew the stinging smoke from his 
nostrils he smiled reminiscently. 


THE END 









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